


Zugzwang

by AnaliseGrey



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arrest, Beating, Broken Bones, Burns, Captivity, Chains, Choking, Drowning, Exhaustion, Guilt, Interrogation, It's a lot is what I'm saying, M/M, Magic Suppression, Manhandling, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Punishment, Restraints, Stabbing, Temporary Blindness, Torture, Triage, Whipping, allusions to past fantastical racism, crushing injury, dislocation, mind-affecting magic, non-consensual medical procedure, oh where to start, putting all the tags in up front, refeeding, residuum and all assorted issues, scalpels, vague indications of possible redemption, withholding food and water, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: “Where are you taking him?”“He’s wanted for crimes against the Empire.”“That doesn’t tell me where you’re taking him.”The captain raises his chin in clear challenge, taking a step toward Fjord, hand on the hilt of his sword. “You’re right. It doesn’t. You keen to join him?”He knows what heshoulddo.He should back off, feign apology, humility, let them take Caleb to who knows where, and do who knows what to him while he and the rest of the Nein figure out a strategy, a plan. A way to get Caleb back safely with minimal threat to the group.Heshoulddo that, but then he looks over to Caleb, in the dirt on his knees, eyes wide and frantic andscared, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.“Perhaps I am.”
Relationships: Fjord/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 153
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, some of you might remember in my 2019 Whumptober, one of the chapters was from a work-in-progress I had on the back burner.
> 
> This is the piece it was from.
> 
> Please pay mind to the tags; I've put as many in up-front as I could think of so that people have an idea what they're getting into. If at any point you find a thing that should be tagged that isn't, please shoot me a comment to let me know, and I'll happily add it.
> 
> Hold onto your socks, friends, and here we go.

_Zugzwang- a situation found in chess and other games wherein one player is put at a disadvantage because they must make a move when they would prefer to pass and not move. The fact that the player is compelled to move means that their position will become significantly weaker._

He knows it’s a mistake almost as soon as he’s done it.

They’ve already gagged Caleb, wrenching his arms back to restrain him, Caleb’s face screwed up in pain, and Fjord can’t help himself.

“Hey!”

The crownsguard manhandling Caleb barely pause, but one of the others, a captain, based on the fancy tabard on their uniform, steps forward.

“On your way. This is no concern of yours.”

Fjord bristles, and he can feel a hand on his arm, one of the others trying to pull him back, to wait for a better time to get their friend back, but Fjord can’t let it go. It’s not a conscious decision, but more a sudden panic.

“Where are you taking him?”

“He’s wanted for crimes against the Empire.”

His hands clench at his sides as he watches one of the crownsguard kick at the back of Caleb’s knees, bringing him down to the ground with a muffled grunt. They start to remove Caleb’s books and holsters, taking his component pouch, and Fjord's anger at the mistreatment and rough handling rises.

“That doesn’t tell me where you’re taking him.”

The captain raises his chin in clear challenge, taking a step toward Fjord, hand on the hilt of his sword. “You’re right. It doesn’t. You keen to join him?”

He knows what he _should_ do.

He should back off, feign apology, humility, let them take Caleb to who knows where, and do who knows what to him while he and the rest of the Nein figure out a strategy, a _plan_. A way to get Caleb back safely with minimal threat to the group.

He _should_ do that, but then he looks over to Caleb, in the dirt on his knees, eyes wide and frantic and _scared_ , and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Perhaps I am.”

There’s a moment of absolute quiet, stunned surprise on all sides, broken by the sharp bark of “ _Fjord_!” from Beauregard, but it’s too late. The captain is already motioning to some of the other guards to make for Fjord, and he has a split second to hand off his pack to Beau before they get their hands on him. He doesn’t fight; they don’t gag him like Caleb- they don’t know he’s a spellcaster- and while there’s the sudden sinking stone feel of worry in his stomach as he feels the irons close around his wrists, he can’t help but feel a little better knowing that whatever fate Caleb is heading toward, he won’t be alone.

They search him roughly, taking the weapons they find and tossing them to the ground, making quick work of his armor as well, and he’s thankful they don’t just confiscate them. Caleb's already been dragged to a nearby cart built with a large barred cage in the back, and have hauled him up into it, throwing him in. It’s there that they’re pulling Fjord to next; unlike Caleb, Fjord’s hands are bound in front of him, and he’s able to help himself get up into the cart so he doesn’t end up sprawled out the same way. The door clangs shut behind them, locking with a _click_ , and with a few terse words from the captain the cart begins to roll away. Through the back bars of the cart, Fjord can easily see the rest of the Nein looking on in variations of shock, dismay, and in Beauregard’s case, simmering anger, and he knows that at the other end of this, when the others eventually get them back, he’s likely going to get an earful from his first mate.

‘ _I_ _f_ ,' a quiet voice in the back of mind says. ‘ **If** _they get you back_.’ He doesn’t let himself listen too closely to it. The Nein have accomplished so much already, he can’t let himself think that this will be the time they _don’t_ succeed. He’s learning to have faith in a number of ways- in his friends, in the Wildmother, in himself- and he’s not about to let some assholes from the Empire ruin that for him.

There’s a quiet groan that draws his attention, and he looks down to see Caleb trying to roll over, to sit up so he isn’t resting on his bound hands where he’d landed. Fjord gets a hold on one of Caleb’s arms to help him sit up, but lets go immediately as it elicits a pained whine from behind the gag.

Caleb shakes his head, eyes scrunched shut, then after a moment uses his chin to gesture towards his shoulder instead. Fjord leans forward, chains jingling, and gets a grip on Caleb’s shoulders, gently easing him over and then up. Once Caleb isn’t laying back on his arms, Fjord can see what’s causing the discomfort- the cuffs they’ve locked Caleb into are different than the ones on his own wrists, containing a short rigid bar between the cuffs instead of a length of chain. Caleb doesn’t wear the bandages on his arms anymore, and for a brief moment, Fjord wishes he did; they might have protected him at least a little from the array of spikes lining the inside of the cuffs. Caleb tries to shift his arms and freezes, a flash of pain working across his features. Fjord’s seen the scarring on Caleb’s arms before from Ikithon’s crystals, and the ever-so-slightly newer scarring at his wrists. Nott and Caleb had told the group they’d met in jail, and Fjord’s always assumed the scarring at Caleb’s wrists was from a long time spent in chains. Now though, with these cuffs for reference, Fjord’s getting a different idea of how they might have been caused, and it sets an ice-cold chip of unease in the pit of his stomach. He thinks about Caleb being locked into these restraints _before_ \- back when he didn’t have anyone to help him, when he’d have been alone, and finds he really doesn't like it.

Fjord gets Caleb upright against the side of the cart and sits next to him, offering to let Caleb lean against him so he doesn’t have to put pressure on his hands. The look Caleb shoots him clearly conveys that he thinks Fjord is an idiot, along with disbelief that he’d let himself be taken in so stupid a fashion, and while Fjord mostly agrees with that, he still can’t help but be glad that Caleb isn’t alone. There’s no way he could have let Caleb be taken to suffer gods-know-what by himself. If he’s learned anything from the Nein, Fjord thinks, it’s that family sticks together; and at this point, Caleb is far more to him than that.

The cart rolls on, hours passing as they travel, and all Fjord knows is they’re heading north. He wants to ask Caleb if he knows where they’re headed, but even if Caleb _does_ know, with the gag in he can’t say.

Dusk is falling by the time a stone wall comes into view, and behind it an imposing stone structure. They pass through a gate patrolled by more crownsguard, and the icy fleck of unease in Fjord’s stomach grows and chills further. This is far more than he’d expected- he’d initially assumed they’d get taken somewhere local, a jail or something while the constabulary sorted something out.

This is a _fortress_.

The cart comes to a stop outside an entrance to the building. There’s a shout from the cart’s driver, followed by a response from a window partway up the side of the building, and a moment later guards are coming out, gathering at the back of the cart. They get the door unlocked, swinging it open, and one of the guards gestures to Fjord.

“Move it, let’s go.”

“But what about-”

They don’t wait for Fjord to finish, reaching in to grab at the length of chain between Fjord’s cuffs and _yanks_ , pulling Fjord sideways towards the back of the cart.

“I said **move** it.”

There’s another yank, and Fjord tumbles out, landing hard and getting the wind knocked out of him. They’re already pulling him up to his feet before he’s recovered his breath, and he doesn’t think anything's broken, though he’s going to have impressive bruises in the morning.

A muffled cry of pain sounds behind him, and he turns his head just enough to see them hauling Caleb out of the cart by an ankle, Caleb struggling to stay flipped to his stomach so his arms don’t catch and pull. He’s only marginally successful, and in the dying light there are splashes of red visible at the edges of Caleb’s cuffs.

The guards holding Fjord’s arms shove him forward towards the door into the building, and he follows without much fuss. He keeps trying to steal glances behind, to keep Caleb in sight, but all he gets for his trouble is an armored fist to his ribs and the barked order to keep moving, eyes front.

He quickly loses track of where they are, how many turns they’ve taken, despite his attempts to focus and remember. Eventually they descend to a dimly-lit corridor lined with bars on one side, and Fjord realizes they’re cells, separated from one another by partitions of more bars. He’s pulled to a stop at the next-to-last cell at the end of the hall, but the guards carrying Caleb keep going. Fjord turns, if nothing else to see where they might be taking Caleb, but he’s quickly manhandled into the cell. The irons he’s been wearing are removed and replaced with another set that are already in the cell. They’re not attached to anything, but they’re _heavy_ , cumbersome, and Fjord can already feel how tiring it will be to try to move too much with them on. Once that’s accomplished, the guards leave the cell, locking the door behind them, and vanish back the way they came, leaving Fjord alone.

Fjord can’t help but sit in the silence of the cell block and _listen_ , ears straining for any hint of noise. He doesn’t know what he expects to hear, doesn’t know what he _wants_ to hear. Part of him hopes for some noise, some small indication that Caleb is still alive, still breathing, but the more rational parts of him know that if he _did_ hear Caleb, it wouldn’t be anything he’d _want_ to hear. The thought of hearing screams, even as an indication of life, chills Fjord’s blood, and he wraps his arms around himself, and does the only thing he can.

He sits and he waits, and it’s excruciating.

Despite the fear and anxiety about their predicament, long enough passes that Fjord starts to doze. It’s been a long day, and it’s exhausting to be on alert for so long. It’s as he’s drifting off that a sound finally comes from down the hallway where they’d taken Caleb.

He perks up as a door clangs open from down the hall, the sound of booted feet coming back towards him, and tired as he is he gets up, moving to the front of his cell to try to see better. Fjord grips the bars and leans forward, pressing his forehead to the cold iron, and catches a flash of auburn as a couple of guards come into view, carrying the limp figure of Caleb between them.

Fjord’s heart leaps to his throat as they move closer, and to Fjord’s relief they open the corner cell next to his and drop Caleb inside.

Caleb’s no longer cuffed, though it doesn’t look as if they healed him at all, the bloody furrows still visible at his wrists. He’s not gagged, either, but there’s now a collar of some kind around Caleb’s throat, shining dully like metal and close-fitting enough that Fjord can imagine the feel of it on his own neck, pressing in.

The guards retreat, locking Caleb’s cell behind them, and go back the way Fjord’s guards had gone, leaving them, for the time being, by themselves.

“Caleb?” Fjord moves over to the bars that separate them. “Cay, can you hear me?”

There’s a brief pause, and for a moment Fjord doesn’t think Caleb’s going to answer; then Caleb shifts, groaning with a muttered curse. Pushing himself up to his hands and knees Caleb crawls over to the back wall of the cell before collapsing down to sit against it. Fjord watches him go, carefully cataloging anything he can find, any new injuries, but if there are any, they’re not readily visible.

Once Caleb settles, Fjord moves to the back wall as well and sits as close to the bars as he can, arms resting on his drawn-up knees. 

“You alright?”

Caleb snorts a quiet laugh. “Oh _ja_ , wonderful, thank you.” Caleb tilts his head so his hair parts and falls to the side, casting a sidelong glance at Fjord. “And what about you? What in the gods possessed you, Fjord? You didn’t have to be here, they didn’t want _you_.”

“Yes, well-” Fjord looks over, meeting his eyes. “Couldn’t very well let you go have all the fun by yourself, now could I?”

A small smile quirks at Caleb’s lips, and he lets his head roll back and his eyes slide closed. “ _Ja_ , well, hopefully you do not have _too_ much fun, Fjord. This is not likely to be the sort of fun you are accustomed to.”

Fjord doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead asks, “What’s your new accessory do?”

“Self-contained anti-magic field.” Without opening his eyes, Caleb gestures up at the collar. “It will keep me from casting anything, and has some other built-in nasty business. Quite an interesting feat of spellwork, actually. I’d be more impressed were I not wearing it.”

That gets Fjord to sit up a bit.

“What other sort of ‘nasty business’? How worried should I be?”

Caleb cracks an eye open to look back over. “Well, considering where we are and who I think is coming, you should be _very_ concerned, but the collar- well, it is not the worst thing I’ve encountered. It is...manageable.”

“...uh huh.” Fjord looks down at Caleb’s hands where they rest on his lap. “How’re your wrists doing?”

Caleb flexes his fingers and winces, looking down to take in the damage. “Unpleasant, something I’d rather have done without, but not incapacitating.”

“Cay-” Caleb looks back up at him, and Fjord lets his mouth tilt up in a kind smile. “I wasn’t asking for a status report, I was asking how _you_ are.”

Expression softening, Caleb smiles back before sighing and rubbing a hand over his face. “I am...I suppose ‘good’ is a bit of a stretch? But I am alright, at least for now.”

“Right then.”

They sit for a few minutes, the only noise the quiet sounds of their breathing and the occasional rattle of Fjord’s chains as he shifts.

“You said considering where we are and who you think is coming.” Fjord has some thoughts, but he wants verification from Caleb. “What do you think is going to happen?”

“Well,” Caleb says, taking a deep breath and letting it out on a sigh. “We are not as far north as Rexentruum, but we are only a few days ride from there. We are actually not too far from where I grew up, the Zemni Fields.”

“Is that right?”

Caleb nods. “As for who I think is coming, do you recall my telling you about my past? About my training, growing up, before I broke.”

“Of course. You were training to be one of those...Vol-things. The Scourgers.”

If Fjord wasn’t paying such close attention, he might have missed the muted flinch Caleb gives.

“ _Ja, Vollstrecker._ I can’t imagine they were thrilled when I vanished, and they are likely curious what I have been up to in the intervening time. My guess-” Caleb swallows, the first real indication of nerves since he was brought back to the cell block. “My guess is that since we are so close to Rexentruum, they are going to send someone to have a chat with me.”

Well hell.

“I’m guessing their variety of chat is a bit more hands-on than most, huh?”

There’s a delicate snort from Caleb. “Something like that, _ja_.”

Fjord’s in the process of thinking up every awful thing he can imagine- and then some- when Caleb interrupts him.

“I need you to stay uninvolved.”

“Unin- what do you _mean_ uninvolved?”

For the first time, Caleb shifts, turning to fully face Fjord. “Whatever happens in the next few days, it is going to be difficult, at the very least. I am going to be trying very hard to do what I can to resist them, and that will be easier for me if I am not splitting my attention and having to watch for you as well. You were not even supposed to _be_ here, Fjord. They did not intend to bring you, initially, and my hope is that they will, for the most part, ignore you. That they will think you were just swept up by accident, someone with more good intentions than sense. It might be best if we don’t show too close of an attachment.”

Feelings of inadequacy aren’t new to Fjord, but he doesn’t usually have his uselessness stated quite so plainly.

“I suppose I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

The silence after is stilted in a way it hasn’t been in a long time, and it sits sour in Fjord’s gut, churning and unpleasant. He wants to reach out, to find a way to lend his strength to Caleb, but he doesn’t know _how_. All he can do is what Caleb asks, but it feels wrong, cowardly, to separate himself this way, to stand back and hide while Caleb takes the brunt of things. The fact that Caleb seems to know what’s coming and might be more prepared doesn’t make him feel better in the least; it sets his nerves on edge that Caleb thinks he knows what’s coming, and won’t _tell him what it is_. As if somehow by keeping Fjord in the dark it will spare him, as if he won’t see whatever they’re doing to Caleb and know anyway. He might also be left to guess, and Fjord thinks that might be worse.

Strike that, he _knows_ it is.

It’s been a while now, but he can still remember the sickening fear every time Jester was dragged from their cell by Lorenzo, hearing her scream but not knowing what was happening or if the screams would suddenly stop. He can remember viscerally every time they’d hear muffled grunts from the next cell over while he was working on Yasha.

Not knowing is infinitely worse.

Sleep is slow in coming for all he was dozing off before. The floor is hard and cold, and it’s difficult to get comfortable with the chains in the way, but eventually Fjord finds himself slipping into an uneasy sleep.

He wakes sometime later, unsure of the time. It’s still quiet, the light levels the same dim flicker from the torches in sconces on the opposite corridor wall. His whole body aches with the chill from the floor and the chains, and when he moves to sit up he sucks in a breath, his ribs protesting and stiff from the previous ill-treatment.

He turns to look into the other cell to find Caleb curled up on the floor, his back to the wall he’d been leaning against earlier, sleeping fitfully. He looks small like this, devoid of his coat and holsters, and it takes effort for Fjord to stuff down the protective urge again. There’s nothing he can do, not right now. They’re in different cells, he’s in chains, and there’s probably a Scourger on the way. He knows things are going to get worse- potentially _much_ worse- before they get better, and there’s fuck-all he can do about it right now. It’s infuriating and terrifying knowing how out of his control the situation is, and he _hates_ it.

He’s sitting, stewing in his own helplessness when Caleb startles violently, a garbled sound halfway out of his mouth before the collar around his throat flares blue. The sound from the other cell abruptly cuts off into eerie silence as Caleb claws at the collar, writhing on the ground. It’s unnatural, sending a shiver down Fjord’s spine as he watches Caleb thrash in obvious pain in absolute silence.

A few seconds later the glow dissipates, the collar returning to its previous dull gray, leaving Caleb lying on the ground, panting for air and shaking. 

It’s not the first time Fjord’s ever seen him jolt awake; it’s also not the first time he’s seen Caleb reflexively try to cast something on waking. It _is_ the first time it’s actively hurt him, though.

Caleb recovers enough to have rolled over to his hands and knees, though he hasn't moved from there yet. Fjord can't see Caleb's face, his head hanging down near the ground.

"You alright?"

There's a pause, then Caleb's voice comes from behind the curtain of his hair, rough like he's been swallowing glass.

" _Ja_ ," he pushes up and back so he's sitting back on his heels, and runs his hands over his face. "It's meant to cause pain, as a deterrent. It doesn't become dangerous unless triggered repeatedly in quick succession."

Fjord doesn't ask how Caleb knows that.

They both lay back down to rest, though Fjord doesn't fall asleep again. He stays awake, unable to slow his thoughts, unable to keep himself from imagining what the incoming Scourger might do to Caleb. The only real frame of reference he has is his time with the Iron Shepherds, and he knows that's not the same.

The Shepherds' goal was to break people as quickly and thoroughly as possible, leaving pliant frightened shells behind. From his limited understanding of Scourgers, he gets the impression that's not really the way they work; it might happen in the course of their efforts, but their goal, other than potential elimination of a target, is extraction of information above all else, by any means necessary.

And from what Caleb’s said, they have an awful lot of means at their disposal.

Eventually Caleb stirs again, pushing himself up to sit with his back pressed against the wall. Caleb watches the front bars of his cell, Fjord watches Caleb, and together they sit and wait in the quiet of the cell block.

Some time later, a door nearby opens, and while Caleb’s gaze doesn’t shift, Fjord glances over to see a guard approach the front of his own cell, a small tray in his hands. The guard pushes the tray through a small gap in the bars near the floor, and goes back the way he came.

“You should eat.”

He looks over; Caleb’s closed his eyes, head still facing forward, appearing far more calm than Fjord has felt since this whole mess started.

“So should you.”

“ _Ja_ , but you are the one with the tray, so you are the one who will eat.”

Again, there’s that calm certainty that skims the fine line along resignation, and something about it rubs Fjord the wrong way; he’d thought they’d grown past this. “Why do you think I wouldn’t share it with you?”

Caleb’s eyebrows somehow manage to raise without his eyes opening. “It is not that I think you wouldn’t, it’s that I will not let you.”

That catches Fjord by surprise.

“But- why the hell not?”

Caleb sighs, and turns his head to finally meet Fjord’s gaze.

“This is a common tactic. It’s meant to soften me up. If my guess is correct, they were instructed not to give me any food before my interrogator arrives. You sharing with me will only encourage the idea we know each other and draw unwanted attention to you. It’s not worth incurring whatever punishment would surely follow. So eat, save your strength. It’s alright.”

Fjord’s got a pretty decent vocabulary, he thinks, but he doesn’t _begin_ to have the words to tell Caleb how _not_ alright this is.

On the other hand- _frustratingly-_ Caleb is probably also right.

And so Fjord forces himself up to his feet and makes his way over to the tray at the edge of his cell.

There’s not much on the tray- scraps of jerky of some kind, a hunk of dark bread, a small skin with water in it- but he dutifully brings it back and eats everything on it. He can’t bring himself to look over at Caleb while he’s eating, and when he’s done, he takes the tray back to the opening near the floor of the cell and shoves it back through, though he keeps the water skin.

Time passes slowly, and Fjord had expected to deal with a lot here, but somehow hadn’t considered the soul-sucking boredom. There’s nothing to do, nothing to distract himself with. Caleb seems to be either dozing, meditating, or _something_ , still sitting quietly with his back to the wall, eyes closed, appearing no more bothered than if he were having a rest in the cart while they traveled.

The next day or so passes the same way.

They do bring Caleb a water skin at one point, but Fjord can tell from how it lies on the ground that it’s nowhere near full; they’re giving Caleb just enough to keep him alive, and Fjord knows it must be agony. He hates that even if he offered Caleb some of his water ration Caleb would say no, probably with the same sad smile he’s been wearing on and off since their capture. It’s frustrating, infuriating, and at the same time heartbreaking to watch Caleb grow paler, the dark circles he normally has under his eyes growing more pronounced. He watches Caleb grow quieter, which he hadn’t thought was possible. Watches him grow listless, watches Caleb’s lips dry and crack, and the feeling of overwhelming helplessness surges again. He tells himself this is different, it’s not the same as with the Shepherds, but as the time passes, and he watches Caleb getting weaker, it’s difficult to separate the instances in his mind.

He doesn’t know what will happen when the interrogator arrives, but he knows it’ll be bad. Caleb talks a good game, and he seems to believe everything he’s saying, but that doesn’t mean Fjord wants to watch it happen. He loves Caleb, considers him a dear friend, _family_ even, and this is already painful to watch. He isn’t sure he’s prepared for what’s going to happen next, but also knows he couldn't have let Caleb face this alone.

He spends some time trying to work his hands out of the cuffs, hoping that if he squeezes his hands together just right, maybe they’ll slip off. All it gets him for his trouble are wrists scraped raw. Caleb doesn’t say anything, though Fjord catches him glancing over once or twice.

He finally gives up; the chains aren’t going anywhere without a key. At some point Caleb’s gone to sleep, laying curled on his side again, and Fjord can see him trembling, even from across the room. It’s chilly in the block even during the day, but at what he presumes is night it gets colder, and there’s not so much as loose straw to separate them from the hard stone of the floors. He wishes they’d let them at least stay in the same cell so they could share body heat if nothing else, but he knows wishes are foolish. No amount of wishing is going to fix this.

He sighs quietly, laying down himself, and attempts to get comfortable enough to sleep. His wrists sting where they’ve been chafed by the irons, and his arms ache from the effort of holding his hands up earlier. The sound of the chains sliding on the floor as he moves grates on him, and he stuffs the irritation down; it’s a small, stupid thing to be annoyed by, but every small annoyance right now feels immense.

He takes one last look over at Caleb, and the sight of him sleeping peacefully- at least for now- is enough to let Fjord relax and slide into sleep himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait til tomorrow, but here's another chapter.

It’s been two days, nine hours, and twenty-seven minutes since their capture when Eadwulf arrives at the fortress.

Caleb doesn’t immediately know that it’s him, of course; despite what the others tend to think, he doesn’t _actually_ know everything. It's easy to tell that something’s changed, though. Fjord is still asleep in the other cell, curled with his head pillowed on his arms, comfortable as possible in heavy irons. Caleb’s been awake for almost an hour already, his nerves not allowing him the further respite of rest.

Because he’s awake, he hears it in the near ringing silence of the cell block- the almost imperceptible sound of activity above them, carried in faint echoes across the stones of the hallway. Raised voices, but not in alarm, booted feet rushing, as if to something important. If they’re not raising an alarm, the next best guess is that someone important has arrived. By his reckoning, that can only mean one thing.

The interrogator from the capital has arrived.

His skin prickles and his stomach churns for all that he doesn’t let his expression change. He’s known this was coming since the moment they clapped him the anti-caster cuffs. It’s inevitable, the only natural conclusion to the series of events that began with his arrest. They knew where he was; it was only a matter of time when he decided not to put the necklace back on. It makes sense that they would send someone to talk to him.

He huffs an almost silent laugh to himself.

_Talk_.

Well, maybe there will be some talk; they don’t always jump straight into things. Or at least they didn’t used to. He can admit that he may not be as up-to-date on technique as whoever they’re sending. He wonders vaguely who it might be, whether they’ll send someone new, some fresh-faced young thing desperate to prove themselves. He wonders if maybe it will be one of his old classmates. He wonders for a split second whether it will be the old man himself, and he has to veer his mind away from that. Even after all this time, even having resigned himself to an ignoble fate, his mind shies away from having to face the Archmage directly. If it’s him, all hope of any sort of positive resolution is lost.

But no.

As he listens, straining to hear, some of the sound grows louder, getting closer- the sound of quiet footsteps. After a few moments his stomach drops, realizing he _recognizes_ the tread, the cadence of boot against stone. When the figure comes into view a few moments later, he’s holding onto his composure by his fingertips. The figure is tall, broad, and as they reach up to flip their hood back, the torchlight gleams against short dark hair and eyes a few shades darker than his own.

“Well. Look who they’ve caught for us. _Hallo, Mäuschen_.”

He has no idea what his face is showing. He’s aiming for stoic detachment, for no reaction at all, but his face and hands went numb from anxious dread the second he placed the footfalls, and he has no idea what his expression is. He’s glad he’d decided not to say anything until absolutely necessary because he doesn’t know if he’s capable of speech right now, and trying and failing would be a terrible way to begin what’s about to happen.

Wulf watches him for another moment, eyes intent, and as Caleb watches Wulf’s expression sharpens, and gods, Caleb knows that look.

He’s just never seen it directed at _himself_.

Wulf sighs and turns back the way he came, gesturing to someone just out of sight. “Bring him,” he says, then turns and continues on down the hallway without looking back, expecting his orders to be followed.

And of course they are. The guards he was talking to come into view and open Caleb's cell. He doesn’t want to go, would rather be almost anywhere else in all the planes but where they’re about to take him, but he also knows, realistically, that a fight isn’t going to end with him winning. He has no magic, hasn’t had more than water in almost three days, and is _exhausted_ ; there’s very little left in him to fight with, and that’s by design. It’s only the knowledge that Fjord is right there in the cell next to his, a vulnerable target, that keeps him from trying anyway. It might be better to go out fighting in the short term, but that would leave Fjord here on his own. While Caleb thinks it’s one of the stupidest things he’s ever seen Fjord do to follow him here, now that he _is_ here, he can’t very well leave him alone. _He_ might deserve this fate, but _Fjord_ does not.

And so, when they open the cell door, he doesn’t fight. He doesn’t struggle as they grab his arms with bruising force and haul him out. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look back as he hears the clank of chains as Fjord starts to wake up at the noise.

He’ll do what he was trained to do. He’ll do as Trent taught him.

He’ll do what he needs to.

There are two rooms at the end of this corridor; the first one, they brought him to a few days previously to attach the anti-magic collar that still weighs heavily at his throat. This time, though, it’s the other room they take him to.

It’s a relatively innocuous room, all things considered. It’s mostly empty, containing a regular wooden chair, which Wulf is in the process of draping his cloak over at the moment, a small wooden table off to one side with a pitcher and cup. It’s the other chair in the room that has Caleb’s knees turning to water despite his best attempts otherwise. It’s a heavy wooden chair, solid, and may well weigh more than he does. It’s been bolted to the floor, secure against any thrashing it’s occupant might do in the course of a day’s work. There are restraints on it, and Caleb’s mind flashes back in time, and he can almost _hear_ Ikithon’s voice, sliding through his mind like an eel.

_‘It’s for the best to restrain you at the start, my boy. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, precisely; I am sure your intentions are good. But you’re young yet, and untested, and considering the delicate nature of this procedure, it’s safer for you that I make sure you don’t move.’_

He snaps out of it as he’s shoved into the chair, and he grunts, head impacting on the back of it. It’s not enough to really hurt, more of a stun, really, but it’s enough to distract him while the guards strap his wrists and forearms to the arms of the chair, and strap his ankles to the legs. The wrist straps catch and rub against the barely closed gashes from the restraints they’d brought him in wearing, but the small hurt is quickly subsumed by his growing dread. One last heavy strap goes across his upper arms and chest, and the guards salute Wulf before stepping out of the room, leaving them alone for the first time in more than fifteen years.

Wulf pulls his chair closer, turning it so he can straddle it, arms folded on the back as he leans forward to regard his captive. Caleb can feel Wulf’s gaze as an almost physical thing, and it’s taking an enormous amount of effort not to squirm.

“So,” Wulf says, a small smile in place on his face, and sounding pleasant, as if they’re old friends, as if nothing’s _changed_. “It has certainly been a long time, _Mäuschen._ I would say it is a pleasure to see you, but-” Wulf says, gesturing at Caleb. “It is a shame that we must meet this way.” Wulf sighs and smiles, fond, and Caleb can almost imagine it’s like old times, Wulf shaking his head as he pulls him away from his work-

_‘Live a little, Bren, you can’t learn everything from books-_ ’

-but then the illusion shatters, and Caleb is once again in the small stone room, strapped to a chair, with Wulf sitting across from him, smiling. Caleb blinks, shakes his head.

“We used to be such good friends, Bren, what happened? I know you were ill, Master Ikithon told us that much, but then what? You kill an orderly and run? What did you think you’d accomplish on your own that you couldn’t manage with us? With the power of the Empire at your beck and call? What possibly possessed you? Help me understand. Perhaps this encounter doesn’t need to be as terrible as you think.”

It’s a lie. Caleb _knows_ it’s a lie. But that doesn’t stop him from considering that maybe there’s a way out of this, maybe it doesn’t have to end with one of them dead, maybe Wulf will let them go for some unfathomable reason, maybe-

“And we are **_Friends_** , aren’t we, Bren?”

-and he almost misses it. Almost misses the small movement of Wulf’s hand near his face, smudging something onto his cheek. Almost falls prey to what Wulf’s trying to do. But he _doesn't_ miss it, and the spell breaks over him like water spilling off an oiled surface, and doesn’t stick.

“ _Es tut mir Leid,_ but I don’t know that we are, anymore.”

“Ah well,” Wulf says as he stands, expression still kind, but now taking on an apologetic twist. “Then I’m afraid this is going to be an unpleasant experience for you.” He moves to the door and knocks, and a second later the door cracks open to show a guard on the other side. Wulf murmurs something to him and the guard nods and takes off. Shutting the door, Wulf turns back and moves until he’s right next to Caleb, reaching up to brush a loose piece of hair out of Caleb’s face, tucking it behind his ear.

Caleb shudders, unable to help it, but does manage not to jerk his head away.

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb manages to say. “I suppose it is.”

A moment later there’s a knock at the door and Wulf goes to answer it. Caleb takes the scant few seconds he’s allotted to bolster himself. He’s seen Wulf at work before, knows- at least a little- the shape this is going to take. He’s no stranger to pain, and while he doesn’t enjoy it, he can endure it. If nothing else, he supposes he can be thankful to Ikithon for that bit of tutelage.

Wulf comes back far too soon, and sets down a small club, barely the length of Caleb’s forearm. From the thunk it makes on the chair in front of him though, it’s made of something dense and heavy. Wulf calmly unbuttons the dark vest he’s been wearing and shrugs it off, setting it aside before unbuttoning and rolling up the cuffs of the gray linen shirt underneath revealing the dark maze-like tattoos that start at his wrists and disappear up under his sleeves.

It’s almost performative, part ritual, and this Caleb also recognizes- setting the stage, getting into the mindset to do what must be done. He used to do it, too, though slightly different. This part, at least, hasn’t changed.

When he’s done, Wulf reaches over and lifts the club, hefting it consideringly in his hand, checking his grip before turning to face Caleb again.

“I’m sure you remember this part, Bren. I’m going to ask you some questions, and probably hurt you some as well-” Wulf pauses, tilting his head as if in thought. “Well, no ‘probably’ about it. I _am_ going to hurt you. How badly and for how long is up to you.”

Caleb holds his gaze for a moment, takes one last deep breath, and lets it out as he closes his eyes, and waits.

“What have you been doing in the Dynasty, Bren?”

He doesn’t answer, focusing himself inward, and tries to brace. The faint _swoosh_ of air that precedes the cudgel is the only warning he gets before it impacts his right shoulder. After that the questions and blows come steadily in turns. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes- seeing the blows coming won’t make them hurt less.

It’s only an hour or so later when Wulf comes to a stop, breathing heavier than when he started. When nothing happens for a few moments, Caleb allows himself to look. Wulf is flushed, hair tousled with the effort he’s been expending to beat him. There are small spots and flecks of blood on him, his shirt darkened in places where he’s sweated through it.

Caleb has the thought that Wulf’s learned some control in the past decade and a half; used to be, once upon a time, that it was unusual for Wulf to not leave any broken bones in the wake of his interrogations. He hurts everywhere, one of his eyes is mostly swollen shut, breathing painful, but from his cursory evaluation, he doesn’t think anything’s actually broken. 

That doesn’t mean Wulf’s learned control in _everything_.

"Have you learned nothing in the past decade, Wulf?" Caleb looks him up and down with his good eye, and doesn’t let the fact he's strapped to a chair change the look of derision he pulls on. "I expected you'd have done something with yourself by now, rather than still being a hound for him." He shifts in place as much as the straps allow, wincing at the pull of blossoming bruises. “I was in an asylum for a decade and look where I am. What have you been doing? Still trying to bludgeon out answers with the end of a heavy stick."

He expects anger, and hopefully a mistake.

He expects temper, and violence, and for the heavy bludgeon to once again meet soft, yielding flesh as Wulf expresses his displeasure.

He’s not expecting a quiet hum of contemplation while Wulf looks at him as if a specimen on a slide.

“ _Who_ hasn’t learned anything in the past decade?” Wulf sets the bloody cudgel down on the table and picks up the cup, draining whatever liquid is inside before setting it back down with a soft thump. He walks back over, gets a hold of Caleb’s chin and forces his head up. Wulf is serene, just as calm and easy-going as at the beginning, and for the first time since the beating started, Caleb feels a slither of cold fear go through his gut.

He’s misstepped, let what he thought he knew cloud his judgement instead of waiting and taking in actual fact. It’s sloppy, unforgivable- he could toss it up to the lack of food, the exhaustion; he knows he’s not at his best, but this was a stupid mistake. 

He should have known better.

“I think you’ll find that I may have learned a bit more than you think since we last saw each other, _schatz_.” Wulf lets go of Caleb’s chin and pats him on the cheek before heading to the door and rapping on it. When it opens he speaks to the guards and then steps back to let them enter.

Without a word they begin to free Caleb from the chair, and he’s glad for their strong grip on his arms even as it presses painfully into the new bruising; he’s reasonably certain he can’t stand on his own right now and isn’t keen on the idea of falling face first into the stone floor.

They move to pull him out of the room, and Wulf calls after him as they pass.

“See you tomorrow, _Mäuschen_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where some of the tags start to come into play...

He’s mostly asleep when they take Caleb away.

He’d finally found a comfortable position and was sleeping well as could be expected when a voice wakes him.

“...bring him.”

In the muddled place of half-sleep, he hears a cell door open, and that’s what rouses him to full wakefulness. He pushes himself up to sitting as a pair of guards grab Caleb and hustle him from the cell. For his part, Caleb doesn’t so much as look back, doesn’t fight, doesn’t make a _sound_ , and if it wasn’t for the resigned slope of his shoulders Fjord would think he’s been magically compelled.

He wants to pace, to _move_ , as if it will make him feel better about whatever is happening down the hall where he can’t see, where he can’t hear. He does try for a time, but the irons weigh on him and after a while he has to sit and rest. He’s been receiving rations, but they’re not nearly enough, and he feels the lack in the lethargy that pulls on him and bids him sit, to be still.

In the quiet of the cells he sits and listens, just as he had the first day.

The first time he hears the faint edge of a clipped shout, his pulse jumps, and he’s half to his feet before he realizes how useless it is. He’s trapped here surely as if he were on a different continent. Whatever’s happening down the hall, there’s nothing he can do, no way to help. He has to hope that whatever they want from Caleb is important enough not to kill him outright.

Despite having done nothing but sit, Fjord is exhausted by the time he hears a door open down the hall where they’d gone before. Hypervigilance has taken its toll, and his shoulders ache with tension he can’t alleviate. 

He hears the tread of booted feet and the soft _shhhh_ sound of someone being dragged, and he fights to look disinterested, unconcerned, but the moment he lays eyes on Caleb that all disappears.

He can’t be unaffected in the face of this.

Caleb’s been beat to shit, one eye swollen mostly closed, livid bruising already visible on his face, on his arms, along the usually-pale curve of his shoulder where part of his shirt has slid over. The guards are carrying him along, Caleb’s feet dragging behind him, not sustaining any of his weight. Only the fact that Caleb’s head isn’t completely dropped forward tells him that Caleb’s even remotely conscious.

Another guard opens Caleb’s cell, and the two men carrying him toss him in, uncaring of how he lands. Caleb falls into a heap on the floor with a muted gasp of pain, and doesn’t move as the cell is locked closed behind him and the guards leave. A few seconds later, another figure comes from the direction they’d brought Caleb, and it must be the interrogator. They’re cloaked, but even so Fjord can make out how big they are, tall and broad, as they sweep down the hallway and out the other end.

He waits until the figure is gone, until he hears the door at the end of the hallway close again, and the clatter of his chains is deafening in the sudden silence of the cell block as he moves to the bars between their cells.

“Cay-”

“I’m alright.”

His voice is rough, and while Fjord barely heard any sounds carrying earlier, he also knows what it sounds like, what it _feels_ like, when you’ve been struggling not to scream for any length of time.

“ _Cay_.”

Caleb gives a shuddering sigh and pushes himself up on shaking limbs to crawl closer. He doesn’t sit up, choosing to remain sprawled on the floor, and Fjord doesn’t know if that’s a conscious choice or if Caleb just doesn’t have it in him to be upright at the moment.

“It could have been worse.”

“That’s an awful measuring stick.”

“ _Ja_ , but it’s the one I have right now.”

“Well, you look like shit.”

Caleb snorts quietly, followed by a caught breath, and Fjord has a flash of worry. “Is it bad as it looks?”

He’s glad Caleb catches his meaning as the other man shakes his head.

“ _Nein_. I don’t think anything is broken. Just lots of bruising. It’s uncomfortable, but not life-threatening. That would rather defeat the purpose, I think.”

That doesn’t exactly make Fjord feel better.

He leaves Caleb to rest, and when the guard comes later with food, Fjord feels his hackles rise when he realizes that once again there’s just the one tray, and they don’t leave even a water skin for Caleb.

“You said ‘until the interrogator arrives’. I’d say he sure as fuck arrived. Why are they still holding out on you?”

There’s a quiet sound that might be a sigh from under Caleb’s hair, and he shifts slightly so he can more easily look up at Fjord.

“Interrogation is not an exact science.” He sounds tired, and Fjord feels a split second of regret for bothering him. “He’s likely adjusting strategy based on observations from today, on how he’s deciding to proceed. I won’t say this is pleasant, because it is obviously not, but I am not in danger of wasting away just yet, I assure you. I have days yet before I will succumb to starvation, to thirst. There’s no immediate danger unless he grows sloppy, and I don’t think he will. He is too well-trained for that.”

Fjord’s fingers twitch at his sides, and even here underground, under layers of stone and metal, he can feel the faintest stir of magic. The Wildmother is everywhere, after all, even here- in the bugs that crawl, in the mold that grows in the corners; there’s life everywhere.

“ _Don’t_.”

“I don’t under-”

“I know what you were about to do, but don’t. We cannot afford to tip our hand.” Caleb reaches up to his throat, trembling fingertips landing lightly on the collar. “Should we gain a chance, you need to be free to do what you must, and that won’t be possible if you’re wearing one of these. I understand the inclination, I _do_ , but you mustn’t. Promise me you will not.”

He hates this. He understands what Caleb is saying, he knows the logic, can see it clear as day, but that doesn’t mean he _likes_ it.

“I’ll wait.” He doesn’t promise he won’t do anything before they have a chance to run- he can’t bring himself to do that- but he’ll wait a bit longer. He knows Caleb is smarter than him, knows that Caleb has a better grasp of what’s happening, and he’s willing to follow his lead, at least for now.

“ _Gut_.” Caleb’s hand drops heavily back to the floor. “I am going to rest. You should get your tray and eat.”

Fjord is awake the next day when they come for Caleb again.

He’s barely slept at all, constantly on-edge, so when he hears the door out in the hallway open and the tread of boots approach, he’s already sitting up. The guards come into view, followed closely by the large cloaked figure from the day before, who continues on down the hallway as the guards pause to retrieve Caleb from his cell. Caleb is trying to push up to his hands and knees when they enter, and in the general quiet of the cell block, it’s easy to hear the sound of pain as they grab and haul him up faster than he can move himself. He doesn’t fight them, and Fjord can do nothing but watch as they take him away.

He’s gone even longer this time.

The hours drag by, and Fjord can’t bring himself to do more than pick at the food they bring him in the meantime. He tucks the jerky in his pocket for later, even though he knows he should eat it now, but the constant bubble of worry in his gut makes it impossible.

He doesn’t hear anything throughout the day, and that makes it worse; the interrogator could be doing anything to Caleb, and he’d have no idea. Visions of all sorts of horrible things play through Fjord’s mind, each worse than the last, and he prays to distract himself. He prays to the Wildmother to be strong as the bars that hold them captive, to be a sturdy foundation like the walls that close them in. He prays to remind himself that much like life, the Wildmother is everywhere, which means that even here she is with him, and while she’s with him, he can’t give in to despair.

He’s so deep in his thoughts that he almost misses the door down the hall opening, but the sounds of footsteps quickly garner his attention. There’s no dragging sound this time, which is heartening, but as the strange entourage comes into view he’s concerned to see Caleb stumbling, appearing disoriented. The guards open his cell and shove him through the doorway before locking it behind him, and they join the interrogator who is once again passing back down the hallway. Fjord catches a flash of fair skin and dark hair under the hood of their cloak, but it’s quick, fleeting, and he doesn’t manage to catch anything else before they and the guards have left.

It takes him a moment to realize Caleb hasn’t moved from where he’d stopped when he was shoved into his cell. He doesn’t look any more beat up than he did before, but there’s something about the way he’s holding himself, stiff and unmoving, that’s concerning.

“Hey,” Fjord calls, keeping his voice pitched low, not wanting to startle Caleb if his mind is _elsewhere_.

Caleb twitches, though he doesn’t appear to startle. His head turns towards Fjord, which is when he catches a look at Caleb’s eyes. They’re wide, staring, unfocused, and a number of thoughts slide into place in Fjord’s mind.

“Caleb-”

The man in question turns to face him and with his arms carefully reaching toward the ground he sits, eyes flicking around but not actually looking at anything he’s doing.

“It’s okay.”

Fjord is getting really fucking tired of hearing Caleb say that.

“Are you-”

“A little blindness is normal after extended application of certain interrogative magics. It should be temporary." Caleb says, speaking to a space about two feet to the right of where Fjord is sitting.

“ _Should_ be?” Fjord can’t keep the incredulousness out of his voice. “The _fuck_...what was he doing to you?”

“I was correct,” Caleb says, shoulders slumping slightly, resting an elbow on his knee and propping his head on one hand, while his other rests lightly on his lap. “He has changed his method of interrogation.” There are visible marks on his wrists and other slightly less visible ones partway up his forearms, and it’s not too far of a stretch to picture restraints holding Caleb still while the interrogator works.

Fjord’s spent the last few days in a stew of anxious dread, but he finds a low curl of anger starting deep in his gut at the thought. He imagines Caleb, bound and helpless, while the interrogator does- well, anything, really- and while he hasn’t seen the man’s face, it doesn’t stop him from wanting to rip it off with his bare hands.

“He switched to more mentally invasive methods.” Caleb lifts his free hand to rub absently at his forehead and the bridge of his nose. “I think I have fended him off for now, but it isn’t a certainty. It’s...taxing, on a person to fend off that sort attack, even at the best of times.” Caleb gives a humorless chuckle. “And I think we can both agree this is not the best of times.”

Fjord frowns. “What happens if he succeeds? If he gets through?”

“If my defenses fail,” Caleb says, “Then any number of things could happen. I would potentially answer any question he asks, or he might bypass that entirely. I have no way of knowing what he’s learned to do since I last saw him.”

That gives Fjord pause.

“Since you last saw him?”

Caleb freezes, his hand stilling where his fingertips are still digging into the hollow just over his left eye. “Ah, yes, that.” Caleb sighs, lowering his hands and lifting his head towards Fjord, even though his eyes still wander just off to the side. “You’ve met him. It’s Eadwulf, one of my old school chums.”

Fjord blinks in shock. “And you didn’t think that might have been important to mention before?”

“Forgive me, but I had a few other things on my mind the last day or so.” The words are sharp, but then Caleb lets out a tired breath, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I- I am sorry, I did not keep it from you by intent.”

“I know you didn’t, Cay,” Fjord says quietly, drawing a hand over his own face. “You’re dealing with a lot right now, and it’s frustrating not to be able to help. I wish you’d let me. It might make it easier to keep up with him.”

“As much as I would like to say yes, I must decline. Wulf is something of a hunter, was even back when I knew him before, and I fear his skills will have only honed over time.” And there it is again, the small sad quirk of Caleb’s lips, and Fjord adds it to the list of things he hates. “He has always been good at keeping a sharp eye on his prey, noting every weakness. He will notice if something changes, if a hurt eases, if he loses a scrap of advantage. They will need to give me sustenance soon if they wish to keep me alive, and I don’t think he’s ready to let me die just yet. There’s too much he could yet get from me to allow that. And I have no doubt that the man up north would want a crack as well.”

Ikithon.

Fjord shudders, thinking of some of what Caleb’s told them all, and having met the man now, he thinks there’s not much he wouldn’t do to keep Caleb as far away from him as possible.

"You're taking this pretty well, so far."

Caleb rubs at his face, eyes finally starting to focus and zeroing in on Fjord. "I've been resigned for awhile now that this was inevitable, that eventually they'd catch up with me, and there would be consequences." He sighs, resting back on his hands. "I had just hoped to have more time."

"I thought you had the," Fjord gestures at his own throat. "The thing. You'd mentioned it was supposed to keep you safe."

" _Ja_ , I did. But I never put it back on after Rumblecusp. He has met you all, now, there would be no point."

Not knowing what to say to that, they sit in the quiet while Caleb continues to rest. Fjord is relieved that when the guards bring food this time, there’s two trays and two water skins. Caleb’s still shaky and blinking more than normal, his eyesight still recovering, but he’s able to retrieve his tray and skin readily enough. It causes an odd ache under Fjord’s ribs to watch him eat and drink though. He knows Caleb must be starving, he hasn’t eaten in days, and must be parched as well, but Caleb eats slowly, taking small controlled sips of water as if his lips weren’t dry and cracked to bleeding. Fjord doesn’t know that he’d have that strong a will in the same position, and tries not to think about how Caleb learned that sort of control.

It’s awful to think that he’s fallen into any sort of routine in the relatively short span of time they’ve been here, but as they both wake up and nothing happens, there’s an uneasy squirming in Fjord’s gut. From what he can tell, Caleb is feeling similarly, because they share a look that says nothing good will come of this.

Another hour passes before the door at the end of the hall opens again, but instead of them making for Caleb’s cell, they stop short at his. He’s already getting to his feet when they enter, and a brief glance over at Caleb stills any inclination he might have had to fight. He knows Caleb well-enough to know when he’s working hard to school his expression, and he’s doing it now, eyes a touch wider than they normally would be, mouth pressed in a tight line. Anyone who didn’t know him might just consider it his normal dour expression, but Fjord would be hard-pressed not to see the worry behind it.

He’s pulled from the cell and taken down the hall, past Caleb, and toward a pair of doors at the end. The door to the left is opened, and they pull him inside.

He’s shoved into a large, heavy wooden chair, his wrists unshackled just long enough for them to be pulled uncomfortably around the wide back of the chair and be strapped securely together, his ankles fastened to the legs of the chair as well. A moment later, Eadwulf comes in, and he looks about the same as he did in Vergessen- big, broader than he is himself, with short and messy black hair, eyes a bit darker than Caleb’s, and a curious tilt to his lips. He sprawls lazily in another chair that he pulls up in front of Fjord.

“So,” he says, Zemnian accent limning his words. “You are the one who has garnered Bren’s attentions.”

Fjord doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes staring resolutely forward to a point somewhere over the man’s shoulder.

“I feel it only polite we get to know each other, we’re going to be spending some time together after all, _ja_? My name is Wulf, what’s yours?”

Fjord doesn’t answer, keeps his response to a slight tick of his jaw, and nothing else.

“You know, I’d expected someone who’d caught Bren’s attention to be more polite than this.”

“And I wouldn’t have expected a snake in the grass to stand on two legs, but here we are.”

Wulf gives a surprised laugh, straightening up before leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees while he gives Fjord a more considering look.

“Oh, you’re going to be a challenge, aren’t you? I knew you must be, or Bren wouldn’t have chosen you. He does bore easily.” Wulf stands, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt before beginning to roll them up to his elbows.

Fjord is trying to stay calm, not to grow more and more tense as each second passes, but he can’t control the thundering of his pulse, wonders how Wulf can’t hear it from the short distance between them, how he can’t see it beating at his throat like a frightened rabbit's. For all he knows, maybe he _can_. He’s seen some of what Caleb can do- there’s no telling what Ikithon’s other proteges learned in the meantime.

“Now,” Wulf moves around the back of Fjord’s chair, and it’s a struggle not to try to follow his movement. There’s the quiet sound of small items being shuffled around- the soft chime of glass, the gentle _tink_ of thin metal on metal, and some other sounds Fjord can’t quite identify. He knows Wulf is doing it on purpose- he’s not an idiot- but that doesn’t make it any less irritatingly effective.

He can’t help but startle when a hand lands on his shoulder, and there’s a quiet laugh from behind him. “Oh relax, we’re just going to get to know one another today, nothing too taxing, I promise.” The words are belied by the sudden stab of pain in the side of his neck. He curses, tries to jerk to the side, away from it, but Wulf’s hand is suddenly in his hair with a brutal grip, holding his head still. “Shhh, just a moment.” The thing in his neck moves slightly, and Fjord grimaces as he feels something injected into him; he can follow the path it takes as it leaves an unsettling icy burn in its wake. There’s a gentle tugging sensation, and the immediate pain in his neck stops, though the feeling of ice water moving through his veins doesn’t.

There’s a clatter from behind him as the grip in his hair releases, then Wulf is moving back around to take his seat again, shifting until he’s comfortable.

“We’ll just give that moment, and then we’ll have a chat, _ja_? Nice and easy, nothing to worry about.”

Time is passing, and as it creeps by it takes on an odd sort of quality; Fjord tries counting in his head, marking the seconds as they pass but he starts losing track as they pull and stretch like taffy. He struggles to focus, to remember, and then finds he doesn’t know where he left off, and starts over. When Wulf leans forward again and snaps his fingers to get his attention, Fjord startles, blinking, and realizes he’s stopped counting and has been staring off into space for- well, he doesn’t know how long.

“Ah, there you are,” Wulf says with a smile, leaning back as Fjord watches him hazily. “I’m going to ask you some simple questions. _There is nothing to worry about_.” His voice is steady, a quiet bass rumble, and something about the way he says the words makes Fjord feel like someone is rubbing his brain with a piece of soft velvet. He discovers he’s leaning in towards Wulf when the bindings on his arms pull him up short. Wulf smiles at him, and it’s _soothing_ , calming after the last few days, and yeah, everything will be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.

“I can see you’re eager to help me, so we’ll start with something easy. What is your name, _schatz_?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue, so close to speaking he can taste it on his lips, and then sense reasserts itself. Hearing that word that only Caleb has ever called him- it feels _wrong_ , like nails on a slate, and it’s with a sense of distant horror that Fjord realizes just how close he was to up and spilling any little piece of information to this asshole that he asked for.

He still feels hazy, like his grip on himself is tenuous at best, and he worries what he might say if his mind wanders again. He clenches his hands into fists, letting his claws dig into his palms to center himself, to try to focus past whatever this man has done to him.

“A shame. I was hoping to do this the easy way...” Wulf sighs. “But if you insist-”

The whatever-it-was that’s been injected is still working; Fjord can feel it coursing through him, making his mind cloudy, his thoughts slow, his tongue loose. It takes everything he has to keep his mouth shut and not say anything at all.

That becomes more difficult when Wulf starts breaking his fingers.

He can’t see it happen, and for that he’s grateful- his wrists are still bound tightly around the back of the chair, but he can imagine it well enough. He was a sailor for a large chunk of his life, and accidents happened on the ship- but those were always _accidents_. They were never done on purpose, with _intent_. 

He’s breathing harshly through his nose, jaw resolutely clamped shut, but a grunt of pain still makes it out as Wulf abruptly wrenches his left index finger back; he hears the quiet snap that accompanies the flash of hot agony flaring through his hand. It joins the angry throbbing of his pinky, ring, and middle fingers. He wants to hope that when Wulf is done with this hand he’ll leave him time to stew, but he honestly doesn’t know if he will. For all Fjord knows he may break all of them then start cutting them off. He has no way to guess what the stages of escalation are. Caleb would know, but he’s not exactly in a position to ask. The drug Wulf gave him earlier thankfully seems to have worn off, and his mind feels very much his own again. He knows things are going to get worse, that’s the way of this type of thing he expects, but if all Wulf has for him is pain, well-

He never thought he’d be thankful for his time with the Iron Shepherds. That had taught him lessons about pain he’d never expected to have to learn, and much as he hates it, it’s serving him well now. Then, he had no goal other than to try to keep Jester and Yasha safe. He’d failed spectacularly most of the time, unable to spare them even the smallest of indignities, but he’d tried. Here, he has a similar goal. If his silence will keep Caleb safe, even for a little while, then he’ll endure what he has to.

“You know,” Wulf says conversationally as he gets a firm grip on Fjord’s thumb. “I really don’t understand what would be so terrible about telling me your name. Even just your first name, I’m not terribly picky. Such a small thing, surely it's not worth all of this just to keep it from me?”

There’s a muted _pop_ as his thumb is wrenched out of place and dislocated, and Fjord screams, unable to help it, though he clenches his jaw tight again right after.

“I suppose I could always ask Bren again-”

A snarl works out from Fjord’s throat and around his gritted teeth. Wulf is trying to get under his skin, to _provoke_ him, but well, Fjord's dealt with _that_ before, too. So he takes a deep breath, and doesn’t respond.

Eventually, they return Fjord to his cell. They’ve put the heavy irons back on his wrists, rubbing against the raw skin left behind from his struggles against the rough leather strapping. All he wants is to lay down, to find respite, however fleeting, from the throbbing misery that his hands have become.

Caleb is sitting against the back wall of his cell, watching intently as they pass. The guards shove Fjord through the open door of his cell and he stumbles, going down to his knees but thankfully stopping himself from landing on his hands. The bars clang shut behind him, and as the guards walk away, Wulf following after, he gives himself a moment to breathe.

There's a quiet noise from nearby, and when he looks up it's to see Caleb there watching him, hands gripping the bars that separate their cells. Fjord does his best to find a smile for him.

"I'm fine."

Face clouding over, Caleb's eyes flick down to where Fjord's hands are held close to his chest. 

"You don't look fine."

Fjord forces himself up on his knees and shuffles to the bars where Caleb waits.

"There's not much you can do about the fingers, but my thumbs- I don't think they're broken, just dislocated. Can you-?"

" _Ja, ja_ of course." Once Fjord is close enough, Caleb reaches through the bars to gently grasp Fjord's forearms.

Fjord sucks in a breath but doesn't flinch back, instead raising shaking hands for Caleb's inspection. 

Caleb mutters a curse, the furrow between his brows deepening. “Oh, _schatz,_ your hands-” 

Fjord leans in, resting his forehead on the bars as Caleb sets Fjord’s left hand gently down with a clank of chain so he can focus on the other. 

“He said that, too.”

“Hm?” Caleb’s carefully turning Fjord’s hand, trying to find a way to hold it that won’t cause unnecessary pain as he gets a grip on Fjord’s thumb.

“That word... _schatz_.”

“Ah, that. Take a deep breath-”

Fjord’s still on the inhale when Caleb pops the thumb back into place; he shudders through it- it still hurts, but the immediateness of the pain has lessened somewhat. He gives Fjord a moment, still cradling Fjord’s hand in his own and rubbing soothingly at the edge of the iron cuff.

“Why ask about the word now, you’ve never asked before.” Caleb sets Fjord’s hand down and reaches for the other; Fjord lifts it obediently, trying and failing to calm the shaking that still plagues him. Giving Fjord’s arm a gentle squeeze, Caleb gets the grip he needs on Fjord’s thumb.

“I’ve always been curious, I guess, but- _fuck!_ ” Fjord curses as Caleb uses the moment of distraction to pop Fjord’s other thumb back in. “Fucking _hell_ , Cay…”

“ _Es tut mir leid_ ,” Caleb murmurs, still holding Fjord’s hand. “There is, as you said, not much to be done about your fingers, but if you’d like I can help you wrap them so that if they go unhealed, they will not start to mend incorrectly?”

Fjord glances down at his fingers; he’s been studiously avoiding it, not wanting to see. They’re bent at angles that make his stomach churn, already swollen and dark with bruising. He knows Caleb is right, that they should try to do something with them so that when they’re rescued- he doesn’t let his mind turn it into an ‘if’- they won’t need to rebreak his fingers to heal them correctly. The thought of having them touched right now, even for a good reason, makes him queasy. It’s only knowing it will be twice as bad if he _doesn’t_ allow it that gives him the courage to nod.

“Yeah-” He swallows, clears his throat. “Yeah I guess we should, huh.”

The look Caleb gives him is sympathetic, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching for the hem of his shirt, starting to rip strips off the bottom.

“No, Cay, we can use mine-”

“Hush. I can’t easily reach yours and you’re in no condition to do it yourself. It’s only a few inches of fabric, it’s alright.”

Giving a huff of frustration, Fjord lets it drop, and adds it to his mental list of things he owes Caleb for.

The next short while feels interminable and is just as unpleasant as he’d expected. He knows Caleb is trying to be gentle, but there’s only so much gentleness will get you when all your fingers are broken. The whole while Caleb is murmuring quietly to him, in Common and Zemnian both, and Fjord thinks he catches another language that sounds almost musical. By the time Caleb is done, Fjord is slumped forward against the bars that separate them, his whole body shaking and sheened in a cold sweat. He’s managed not to scream, though the inside of his cheek is chewed raw from the effort, and he hasn’t been able to help the tears of pain that are still running slowly down his face.

“Shh, you did so well.” Caleb gently sets Fjord’s wrapped hand down, and brings his own up to wipe some of Fjord’s tears away. Without thinking, Fjord leans into it, and freezes when he realizes what he’s done. Caleb just tuts at him, pressing his own forehead to the bars so they’re close. “You’re okay. You did very well.”

“I’m not-” Fjord chews on the words, trying to find the ones he needs. “I’m not like you, Cay, I don’t know how long I can do this. I’m not strong, I’m-”

“Stop that.” 

When he chances a look up, Caleb is looking back, the blue of his eyes no less intense for how tired and worn the rest of him looks. “This is not a competition. Or if it is, it is certainly not against me. It is both of us against that _Arschloch_.” Caleb spits the word as if it tastes bad. “It is a losing proposition, though. On a long enough timeline, the torturer always wins.” He sighs, resting his hands lightly on Fjord’s forearms and Fjord’s grateful for the contact. “What was it he was asking you?”

“He wants my name. I decided he doesn’t deserve to have it.”

Caleb hums in response, his thumbs sweeping back and forth in a soothing motion against Fjord’s skin.

They sit quietly for awhile, and Fjord has almost sunk into a light doze when there’s the sound of a door opening and he startles to wakefulness, wincing as his hands move on reflex.

It’s one of the guards, with two trays; without a word, he shoves one into each cell, then leaves again. With a glance over, Fjord frowns. Up until now, they’ve been given bread, and water, and occasionally a few pieces of jerky. Today, though it’s soup of some sort, without a spoon, and Fjord’s fingers give a throb at the idea of having to pick the bowl up. He’s already considering if there’s a way to give it to Caleb, or maybe just not eat at all, when Caleb interrupts his thoughts.

“It’s okay to do what you must to survive.”

“Hmm?”

Caleb nods in the direction of Fjord’s tray. “We both know what he is doing, but I am telling you there is no shame in doing what you must. And you must eat. We will need every bit of advantage we can get, and letting yourself go hungry unnecessarily is not something to be done lightly.”

Fjord eyes the tray again, and the bowl sat on it, and asks again, without looking at Caleb.

“What does _schatz_ mean? You call me that a lot, and I’ve never bothered to ask.”

Sighing, Caleb runs a hand over his face. “I suppose the closest translation would be ‘treasure’.”

Huh. That surprises Fjord into looking back over at him.

“You should not take anything Wulf says to heart.” Caleb levers himself up with a quiet noise of effort and stumbles to the front of his cell to retrieve his tray, intently ignoring the look Fjord is sending his way. “Anything he says is a means to accomplish something; nothing he says or does changes anything.” It takes visible effort for Caleb to carry his tray back; there’s a fine tremor in Caleb’s hands, and it’s disheartening to see the focus Caleb’s expending in the effort of getting his dinner where he wants it without spilling anything. He hadn’t noticed it when Caleb was fixing his thumbs or setting his fingers, but it’s evident now.

“Are _you_ alright?” Fjord asks. He’ll get his own tray in a moment, but it occurs to him he’s been trusting Caleb to tell him if something were really wrong, and can’t help but wonder if that trust was ill-placed.

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb says as he sets the tray down, then sits next to it. “As you might imagine the last few days have been...trying.” He grabs the piece of bread on the tray next to the bowl of soup and starts ripping it into tiny pieces and tossing them into the bowl. “I’m about as well as could be expected. His decision to take you today was unsettling.” The frown lines between Caleb’s brows deepen again, and Fjord is struck with the urge to reach out and try to smooth them. “I had hoped to keep his focus on myself, that he might leave you alone, think you were swept up by mistake. Now I believe that to have been a frivolous hope.”

“And, uh, if he’s not buying it- what do you think he’ll do?”

Caleb’s hands still in the process of ripping up the last bit of bread. He won’t meet Fjord’s eyes, keeping his gaze pointed down at the bowl of soup.

“I think,” Caleb says, so quietly Fjord has to strain to hear even in the quiet of the cells. “That he will do what he was trained to do. He will use you as a means of leverage, a point of pressure. He will do what he needs to in order to gain the results he seeks.”

Fjord swallows and finds his throat has gone suddenly dry. In an effort to stumble past that horrifying thought, he forces himself up, leaning against the bars for balance. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Caleb look up, following his slow progress to the tray of food that sits just inside his cell door. It takes a couple of tries, but he manages to pick it up, mostly by gripping it between the flats of his palms and pressing his hands together. It isn’t terribly steady, and the bowl of soup isn’t as full as it was by the time he sets the tray down with a graceless clatter on the floor next to where he was previously sitting. His hands throb from holding the tray, the abused muscle and sinew twinging from the effort. His stomach rumbles, and he knows he should eat, but the pain is making him queasy, stealing his appetite and he can’t imagine trying to lift the bowl right now to drink what soup hasn’t splashed out.

He doesn’t realize he’s lapsed into staring miserably at the tray until Caleb gently nudges his shoulder through the bars.

“I can help you, if you’d like. You still need to eat.”

An angry flush heats his face, and Fjord _hates_ it, hates knowing how easy to read he must be, how transparent he is. He wants to do it himself, doesn’t want to have to rely on anyone else. It’s something he’d learned early on, to be self-reliant because you never knew how hard you could lean on someone until it was too late. But he’s learned a lot in traveling with the Nein, Caleb especially. He’s learned about family, and he’s learned about trust. He’s also learned that sometimes it’s okay to accept help, to lean on others. He swallows down his pride, and nods.

“Yes, that’d be great, thanks.”

And that’s that. Caleb doesn’t say anything else, just nods and reaches through the bars to rip Fjord’s bread into smaller pieces that are more manageable. He dips them in the soup, allowing them to soak up the broth before holding them up near Fjord’s mouth so he can easily nab them with his lips and teeth. It’s slow-going, and a bit messy, but Fjord knows it’s more successful than any attempt he might have made to feed himself would have been.

“Thank you,” he says when he’s done, wiping his mouth with his forearm.

“Think nothing of it.” Caleb’s gone back to eating his own food, sipping at the broth thickened with the small pieces of bread he’d tossed in earlier. He quirks a small smile at Fjord. “We have not come this far for me to let you starve now.”

Fjord snorts, but a small bubble of warmth still settles in his chest. He knows, rationally, that Caleb cares for him, but it’s still nice to hear it.

“Well, thank ya’ kindly.”

It’s Caleb’s turn to snort, and he tips the bowl up to get the last bits from inside; Fjord can’t help watching the movement of Caleb’s throat and stuffs the resulting thrill down. This is neither the time nor the place for that.

He flicks his eyes back down to his hands as Caleb lowers his bowl and sets it back on the tray. His fingers are throbbing miserably, but they do feel better for being set and wrapped. He forces himself back to his feet, swaying slightly for a moment; he hadn’t realized how much the day had taken out of him until now.

There’s a quiet sound and when he looks over, Caleb is watching him, concerned.

“I’m alright, just need a second.”

He waits, shoulder braced against the bars until he’s steadied, then moves, using his foot to nudge the tray back to the front of the cell and out into the corridor, not bothering to try and pick it up. He shuffles back, and gods, he’s getting tired of these fucking chains. Settling back down on the floor, he does his best to lay down and get comfortable. Between Wulf’s attentions and the resulting pain, he’s exhausted, and is ready for a break, however temporary.

“Rest well, my friend.”

Fjord only manages a quiet grunt before he’s out.


	4. Chapter 4

To Caleb’s intense dismay, they take Fjord again the next morning.

They’re both still sleeping when the guards come and there’s a split second where both of them freeze, wondering what will happen. The guards stop at Fjord’s cell, not waiting for him to try to stand. They merely grab his arms and haul him up and out before he even has his feet entirely under him. He trips momentarily, foot catching on uneven stone, but there’s barely a sound from Fjord as his hands jostle against the guards at the movement, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks painful.

And all Caleb can do is watch him go.

A moment later Wulf follows down the hallway, already in the process of removing his cloak, and he spares only a glance for Caleb as he passes. Once Wulf is out of sight Caleb lets his temper loose for just a moment, attempting a firebolt at the wall. He accepts the shock from the collar as it silences his yell of frustration, and goes down to his knees, shaking.

He doesn’t know what Wulf expects to get from Fjord, or if he’s only doing this in an attempt to put pressure on him. It could be either, or both, really. Running his fingers through his hair he spends the next while trying to figure out a plan, a course of action, anything that will draw attention back to himself without actually giving anything away.

When the screams start from down the hall he does his best to tune them out.

It’s difficult to ignore after awhile. He’s always been good at pattern recognition, it’s one of the reasons Ikithon said he picked up certain spells so quickly, but all it means now is he can’t help but hear the pattern in the rise and fall of Fjord’s voice echoing down the hallway. He can read where Wulf is asking questions by the pauses, the held-breath spans of quiet that are then shattered by pained cries. He worries when halfway through the day there’s an especially-loud, drawn-out scream followed by minutes of quiet, and the gnawing dread spikes in his gut, all sorts of thoughts creeping in despite his best intent. He knows Wulf wouldn’t be so careless as to kill Fjord this quickly, not when he’s such an asset in terms of dealing with himself, even if Wulf doesn’t know just how profoundly yet. That doesn’t mean that Wulf wouldn’t do something horrific. The worst part, Caleb thinks, is that he just doesn’t _know_ , anymore. He’d thought he had a good track on Wulf, on what he’d do, how he’d act, but somehow in all his planning, it had never occurred to him that as he himself has grown and changed, so has Wulf.

The shouts start up again a few minutes later, and it’s both a relief and a dagger to Caleb’s heart to hear it.

It continues for hours, again culminating in a prolonged scream, and gods, he can only imagine what Wulf must be doing. He’s heard Fjord scream before; in fact he’s heard _most_ of the Nein scream before. Theirs is not a lifestyle that lends itself to safety, and they’ve all been injured, often grievously so. So he’s heard them all scream, Fjord included.

But he’s never heard Fjord sound like this.

There’s defiance there, and that bolsters him a little, but mostly it sounds like pain, the slow, inescapable kind that torturers deal in. This is no crossbow bolt to the shoulder, a sword graze, or a quick flash of fire or ice over vulnerable skin. This is a whole different creature. He used to be good at drawing out those kinds of sounds once upon a time. Bren used to-

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of the door down the hall opening, and playing back the last few minutes in his mind he realizes the screams have stopped, haven’t happened for a little while. By his guess, it’s late afternoon, and a likely time for Wulf to wrap things up for the day. Unlike the previous day, Wulf exits first, a grim expression on his face as he goes by, cloak over his arm. He doesn’t so much as glance at Caleb as he passes.

A minute later the guards and Fjord follow behind.

He waits, breath stuck in his throat as he prepares himself as best he can to take in the damage.

Fjord is on his feet, though barely, small gasping sounds of pain he can’t swallow down making it out at every footfall. Caleb doesn’t immediately see anything more than he had that morning, and the curl of dread in his gut unfolds, growing and twisting as his mind races, trying to figure out what they’ve done.

They open the cell and shove Fjord in, closing and locking it behind him before he’s even stopped moving. The guards leave then, but Caleb isn’t paying them much mind; his eyes are on Fjord.

Fjord, who stumbles into the cell and doesn’t make it more than a few feet before collapsing down to his knees and curling forward protectively over his arms with a quiet whine. He doesn’t move, just kneels there shaking, breaths coming in harsh pants, and Caleb is familiar with that sound as well. It’s the sound of someone trying to control their pain, to squash it down until it’s something manageable instead of the all-consuming agony that threatens to overtake and overwhelm, drowning and dragging you down into its depths until it’s all you know.

He gives Fjord time, lets him make the attempt to pull himself together before softly calling, “ _Schatz_ -”

Fjord shudders, arms pulling in closer for a moment as he curls lower, then takes a deep breath that goes out of him all at once. He straightens, and there are tear tracks, his face a blotchy green. His lips are bruised and puffy as if he’s been biting them, and Caleb has no doubt that’s exactly the case. Moving slowly and with exaggerated care, Fjord shuffles towards the bars that separate them on his knees, arms still held close and stiff, the heavy chain between his manacles swaying as he moves.

When he gets to the bars he collapses against them, another pained noise wrenched out of him as he jostles, and Caleb still can’t figure out what’s happened. Closer up, it’s easy to see the sheen of sweat on Fjord’s face, at his throat, and Caleb realizes he’s a few shades paler than he normally is; usually he’s a shade that makes Caleb think of verdant fields, of new grass in spring. Now, he’s a sickly hue, a green that speaks of nothing healthy.

Caleb brushes some of Fjord’s hair off his forehead, and Fjord lets his head loll into the contact.

“What did he do?” Caleb murmurs, starting to pet gently at Fjord’s hair, offering what comfort he can.

“W‘sa vice.” Fjord slurs, his voice raspy. He tries to clear his throat and winces, his next words at no more than a whisper. “Wrists-”

Eyes flicking down, and knowing what to look for now, he can see the dark green smudges of bruising peeking out from under the the large metal cuffs at Fjord’s wrists, as well as swelling, making the cuffs look uncomfortably tight. A number of things add up very quickly in Caleb’s head and he hisses out a vehement curse.

“ _Scheiße_. Are they-?”

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Fjord breathes out on an almost hysterical giggle. “Like a wine grape.” His eyes are glassy, and with a frown Caleb shifts his hand to press the back of it to Fjord’s cheek. It’s cool and clammy, and Caleb’s stomach flips. He’s ill-equipped to handle shock, and he doesn’t know that yelling for assistance would do much more than give Wulf a chance to use it as a bargaining chip. He’ll have to do what he can.

“ _Schatz_ , I need you to move a little, can you do that? Just turn so your back is to me. I need to try to warm you up.”

Fjord snorts at something but obeys, moving slowly to turn and lean back against the bars, his legs out in front of him. Caleb sighs; it’s not ideal, but hopefully his body heat will be enough to counteract the chill of the bars. He shuffles forward, pressing his chest up against the bars and threading his arms through and under Fjord’s so he can wrap them around Fjord’s chest, pulling him back and close. It’s not much, and he doesn’t know if it will be enough to stave off shock entirely, but there’s nothing else he can do right now, so he’s going to try it.

Fjord’s shaking calms after awhile, and when next Caleb checks he has a bit more color to his cheeks and doesn’t feel so clammy. While that’s good, Caleb can tell any sort of buffer Fjord’s body may have been producing in the wake of the initial injury is long gone. When he finally pulls back and Fjord turns to rest his shoulder on the bars, Fjord’s face is pinched, his eyes tight with pain, and Caleb knows how good Fjord is at putting up a front. If all this is getting through, he can’t imagine what Fjord is holding back.

“Thanks,” Fjord rasps after moment’s pause. “I’m just gonna-” He shrugs his shoulders, and works to slide down so he can rest on the floor. He moves as if he’s going to try to pillow his head on his arms again and chokes on a scream. “Nope, okay.” He rolls over onto his back and rests his hands on his stomach. The wrappings from the day before are still there, for all the good they’re doing, but it must be agony; Caleb wants to rail and shout at Wulf, but he can’t. He wishes he could get the cuffs off of Fjord, but he can’t do that either. It grates on him how utterly useless he is without his magic, and desperately wants to tell Fjord to help himself, to use even just a tiny modicum of the Wildmother’s favor that he possesses to ease the hurt.

Instead, he lays down on the floor next to the bars and slides an arm through, working his hand in under Fjord’s head so it’s not resting flat on the cold stone. Fjord makes a quiet questioning noise, opening his eyes to look over, and Caleb summons up a smile from somewhere. He has no idea how convincing it is.

“It’s what I can do.”

Fjord just stares at him a moment, tired and hurting, then nods, the briefest movement of his head, before settling further and closing his eyes.

They’re brought no food that evening, and Caleb has the passing thought it’s a punishment for him having helped Fjord the evening before.

It’s not a very restful night for either of them; Caleb’s arm quickly begins to ache, to fall asleep, but he’ll be damned if he moves his hand from under Fjord’s head. Fjord, for his part, is restless through the night, making small sounds of discomfort even as he sleeps.

When morning is heralded by the sounds of approaching guards, Fjord startles awake. He’s barely managed to sit up as they’re opening his cell door, and Caleb sees the flash of expression over Fjord’s face- it’s only the briefest flicker, but it’s one Caleb knows well, even if it’s been over a decade since he’s had occasion to see it. It’s the spare second in which the prisoner decides whether or not they’re going to fight, whether or not they’re going to beg for reprieve. Fjord does neither, locking his jaw shut as the guards grab him by the arms and haul him up to his feet. He doesn’t manage to entirely stifle a groan as the heavy chain from his manacles pulls on his wrists as he stands, but he doesn’t let it become more than that, and Caleb is suitably impressed. He’s always known Fjord to be strong, even if Fjord doesn’t feel that way, and his actions only prove Caleb’s opinion to be correct.

Moving to sit along the back wall, Caleb settles in for what he’s certain is going to feel like another very long day.


	5. Chapter 5

They take him a third day in a row, and shame curls deep in Fjord's belly that he almost begs them not to. As they pull him from the cell and his hands and wrists scream at him, he tries to picture Caleb and the quiet stoicism he’d shown while being dragged off, even knowing, better than Fjord did, what likely awaited him at the end of the hallway.

All Wulf is asking is his name, and for the briefest moment Fjord wonders how bad it would be to just tell him. It’s a slippery slope, though. Once he gives in on one small thing, it’s not as hard to give in on something else, then something else, then something bigger. Where does it end?

It’s best just not to start.

They pull him down the hall, and he tries not to tense up as for the first time they take him to the other door, the one on the right. What he sees inside makes him instinctively pull back, but it’s a losing battle. One of the guards who was there the previous day grabs the chain between the manacles and _pulls_ , and Fjord’s vision goes white as he screams. It takes most of the fight out of him, allowing them to move him along with ease. There’s furniture scattered around, though Fjord thinks that’s not quite the right word; most furniture doesn’t involve so many chains and restraints. He’s dragged to a thick wooden beam against the far wall that spans floor to ceiling, seemingly wedged in tight and braced to the stone with bolts and metal bands. There’s a set of shackles hanging from it, above head height, and he has a horrible idea he knows where this is going.

There’s the briefest moment of painful relief as the heavy manacles are removed from his wrists; it’s short-lived as he’s shoved chest-first against the beam and his arms are wrenched up above his head. He tries to swallow down the choked cry as the shackles are locked into place, but he has no idea how successful he is; it’s difficult to tell past the rushing of blood in his ears. When the guards step back from him he’s left pressed against the beam, arms pulled uncomfortably above him, wrists already in agony. He tries to take comfort in the fact that at least he’s able to rest his feet fully on the floor, to keep his weight off his wrists, but it’s cold comfort indeed.

“ _Guten Morgen_ , and how are we feeling today?”

He can’t help the way his shoulders tense at the sound of Wulf’s voice; it’s a reasonable response after the last couple of days, he wouldn’t begrudge it of anyone else, but he should be stronger than that. What’s some broken fingers or crushed wrists in the grand scheme of things when he knows what sort of horrors await Caleb if he’s taken to Rexxentrum? This is nothing.

“I don’t suppose,” Wulf says from behind him, “That you have come to your senses and decided to tell me your name? You could spare yourself further pain.”

A number of epithets sit heavy on Fjord’s tongue, but he bites them back. Better to say nothing. It will be easier to keep his mouth shut through whatever is about to happen if he doesn’t start now.

“Or perhaps you just enjoy suffering. What do you think holding back gets you?” There’s the sound of something being picked up, and the soft whistle of something cutting through the air behind him. “The offer remains open, feel free to speak up at any time.”

There’s another soft whistle, but this time it’s followed by a stinging strike to his shoulders. He sucks in a breath, shoulders hunching instinctively against the pain, and he chokes on a scream as it pulls at his wrists.

“Ah yes, you might wish to be careful about that.” Wulf says, then begins to properly lay into him.

He doesn’t know what it is Wulf is using, precisely, but it _hurts_. It quickly builds from stinging, to burning, and only gets worse from there. It’s a struggle to stay still, to not move as the lash falls, but it’s infinitely worse when he does. He has the panicked thought that if he isn’t careful he could permanently injure his hands; Wulf’s shown no indication that he’s willing to bestow any medical attention on either him or Caleb, and there’s no indication that permanent damage is outside the realm of possibility.

He doesn’t mean to say anything, has bitten his lips bloody in an attempt to stay quiet, but Wulf lands an especially vicious hit, and Fjord can _feel_ the skin of his back split, and the word is out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“ _Please-_ ”

The previously steady rhythm of strikes comes to a pause, and he berates himself as a weakling even as he relishes the brief respite.

“Please what, _Hündchen_? Are you ready to tell me what I’d like to know?” A hand lands on Fjord’s shoulder and squeezes, drawing a pained whine from him. 

Half a dozen thoughts flit through his mind in quick succession, weighing cost and benefit. He can’t take much more of this, not after the last few days, he just _can’t_ , but there’s also a deep thrumming need to not give Wulf a single fucking thing he wants.

“Sabien,” he gasps out as Wulf digs his fingers into a split in his shoulder. “My name is Sabien.”

Wulf grabs Fjord’s shoulders and pulls him just far enough away from the beam that he can spin Fjord so they’re face-to-face. Fjord grunts as his back hits the rough wood, scraping against the cuts and tender welts Wulf has left behind so far. His hands and wrists went numb a little while ago, and while it’s intensely concerning, he can’t find it in himself to worry about it at the moment.

“You know, it was alright when you were resisting. I can respect that.” Wulf gets a hand on Fjord’s throat and squeezes, using the grip to force Fjord back further, pinning him. “Lying, however, I cannot abide, _Fjord_.”

Fjord’s eyes go wide before he can think to hide it, and Wulf’s mouth pulls into a faint smile.

“I was able to pluck it from Bren’s mind. He was trying _so hard_ to keep other things away, but well, some things did slip through.” His grip tightens, cutting off air flow, and Fjord twists, trying to get free, to grab even a modicum of air, but Wulf doesn’t let him, crowding in close and pressing until the rough wood of the beam _grinds_ into Fjord’s back. “It’s been very interesting watching him watch you, you know. He tries to hide it, but if you know him well, it’s fairly obvious, _ja_?”

It’s getting hard to think, to be calm as the overwhelming need to _breathe_ overtakes Fjord’s mind until there’s nothing else and he struggles, kicking and straining against Wulf’s hold; with his wrists shackled and Wulf pressed so close, he doesn’t have the space to move.

“And then, of course,” Wulf continues conversationally, as if he isn’t choking the life out of someone. “There’s the whole issue of your accent. _That_ is something I feel we’ll need to discuss at length, because you don’t sound like you’re from around here, Fjord, and I’m curious as to where you hail from. But not right now.”

Releasing Fjord’s throat, Wulf steps back, and Fjord sags, gasping for air, coughing and sputtering. The air burns his throat as he drags it in, but it’s still sweet. 

“There is, however, the matter of you lying, Fjord. As I said, that is not something I can abide. If you want to simply refuse to answer, that is fine, though ultimately foolish. Lying, however, will be severely punished I’m afraid.” 

Now that he’s not facing the wall, Fjord can see the table of implements Wulf is standing near. To one side is a short and wicked braided thing of leather, and Fjord realizes that’s probably the whip Wulf’s been using up until now. It’s an easy matter of elimination, Fjord thinks, because the only other thing on the table is the cat o’ nine tails Wulf is picking up and making a few practice swings with. It looks nasty, _heavy_ , rough falls of rope with knots worked through.

Wulf smiles at him, and it would almost look apologetic if Fjord didn’t know better.

“If you would please turn around, we can get started. Best to get it over with quickly, _ja_?”

A cool sense of resigned dread settles over Fjord, a calm inevitability. This is almost easier, he thinks as he turns back to face the other way. Wulf is going to hurt him, not as a play for information, but just because he can. Resting his forehead against the wood, Fjord takes a deep breath and tries to ground himself. Wulf knows his name, but it isn’t because he gave it up. He hasn’t been asked anything else yet, he doesn’t have to keep quiet. 

The first blow from the cat knocks whatever breath he’d had out of him in surprise. The rope _is_ heavy, the knots hitting with bruising force, and the roughness scrapes against already-tender skin. He’s barely recovered from the first strike when Wulf hits him again.

And again.

And again.

It goes on, hardly any pause between strikes, and when a scream rises in his throat, he doesn’t try to stop it. All his focus is aimed toward staying on his feet; Fjord locks his knees, leans against the beam, and desperately tries not to collapse.

He’s near-delirious by the time Wulf stops, his voice long broken and given-out. He’s floating, the pain present but distant at the same time; it’s so all-encompassing it almost fades into a background hum. He’s barely aware as someone releases his wrists and only figures out it’s happened when he’s slumping to the floor, no longer able to hold himself up. Hands grab his arms and pull, and a moment later he realizes he’s moving, being carried along.

It doesn’t occur to him that he’s losing time until he blinks and he’s no longer in the same room; he’s in the hall, and when he opens his eyes again, he blearily sees bars as he’s dropped to the ground.

It hurts, he knows it does, but his mind feels far away and it’s difficult to focus.

There’s a buzzing sound, and after a minute it resolves into a voice.

“ _Schatz, please_ , I need you to answer me-”

He turns his face toward the voice, like a flower toward the sun, and there’s Caleb, pressed as close to the bars between their cells as he can, face pinched with worry.

“-aleb”

It’s hard to speak, his voice coming out as more a wheeze than a word, but relief washes over Caleb’s face as Fjord responds.

“ _Götter oben_...” Caleb takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and resting his head on the bars. It’s only for a second, then he’s looking at Fjord again, his eyes intense. “I know it will be very hard for you, _schatz_ , but if you’re able, I need you to move towards me.”

It takes a moment for the words to process, but once they do there’s nothing for it but to try to move. Caleb said he needs him closer, so he needs to be closer.

Pushing up on his forearms, then to his knees, Fjord has to pause, head bowed almost to the stone, thoughts swimming. He breathes, waiting it out, quiet murmurs of encouragement coming from the next cell over. He loses time again, but when he regains awareness he’s collapsed to the floor next to the bars that separate them, and there’s something moving through his hair. It takes him a second to realize it’s Caleb, fingers gently moving and scratching against his scalp.

“There you are, _liebchen_.”

“ _Nnng_ ,” his first attempt at speech slurs into incomprehensibility. He tries again. “You can- call me by name. He found out.”

Caleb clucks his tongue. “There is no shame in that.”

Fjord shakes his head, then has to stop as the dizziness crests over him like a wave, threatening to drag him under. “Nnn, no, tried- tried telling him I was Sab’n. ‘e knew I was lying.”

Caleb’s hand stills in his hair. “Did he say _how_ he knew?”

“Said he skimmed it from you.”

The fingers in his hair twitch, then resume motion again.

“I-” Caleb’s voice sounds choked, and when Fjord turns his head up to look at him, Caleb looks pained. “I cannot express my regret strongly enough, Fjord. I’m sorry.”

“S’ok…” He lets his eyes slide shut, finding it too difficult to keep them open. The pain that’s been floating at the periphery is starting to creep back in, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before it slams into him like a tidal wave. He just hopes he won’t capsize under it. “You didn’t mean to. More important to keep other things-”

He drifts off in the middle of the sentence, the world fuzzing to black and static around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hündchen_ \- puppy  
>  _Götter oben_ \- gods above


	6. Chapter 6

It’s his fault.

Fjord is sprawled unconscious on the floor on the other side of the bars, and Caleb thanks the gods that they didn’t put the heavy irons back on him, though it may have been more a matter of impracticality than mercy. Fjord’s hands and wrists are swollen and dark, noticeable even under the rudimentary wrappings Caleb had applied two days prior. When he reaches through the bars and places light fingertips on one of Fjord’s wrists, his stomach twists to find cool skin instead of warm. His eyes stray to the plane of Fjord’s back, and feels his mind tic over from the chaos of worry into cool, quiet analysis.

The back of Fjord’s shirt is frayed and torn; Wulf hadn’t bothered to remove it before starting in. He flicks one of the bloodied tears aside to look underneath and it’s easy to know what happened, to read the marks on Fjord’s skin like a map.

There’s a veritable web of thin raised welts, some split-through and bloodied. ‘ _Switch, or dragontail whip_ ’, his mind provides. There’s abrasions, though, scrapes and deeper bruising that a thinner whip wouldn’t cause, and a memory surfaces, Wulf standing behind a dissident, a rough hempen flogger in his hand, flashing a smile at Bren and Astrid before turning back to the bound man before them.

_“You knew what lying would get you. This is your own doing.”_

Caleb slides back into the present with barely a ripple in his thought process, and gods- he’d known it was a possibility that Wulf might have gotten something from him, might have skimmed surface thoughts, but it hadn’t occurred to him to warn Fjord, never thought to tell him that if he had to give something up, he should err on the side of truth. Every mark from the heavier whip- every bruise, every scrape, every drop of blood- feel like they stand out further, as if they point at him, accusing, each and every one his fault surely as if he’d held the whip himself.

He has nothing he can use to help Fjord, not so much as a rag or water to start cleaning him up. He’ll have to wait until their dinner comes- _if_ it comes- and use some of the water ration from that to do it. Caleb’s already planning to use some of his own, and hopes Fjord won’t notice. It’s a small price to pay, though not nearly enough to make up for what he’s done.

It’s hours later when Fjord begins to stir again.

“Oh gods-” Fjord groans, whole body tensing as he regains awareness.

“Shh, Fjord, easy.” Caleb has a hand through the bars, resting lightly on Fjord’s head. “Don’t move just yet.”

“I don’t think that will be an issue. I’m not entirely certain I _can_.”

“You can, it will just not be pleasant.”

There’s a quiet huff of air, and Fjord turns his head so he can look up at Caleb. “How long has it been?”

“Just a few hours. Not long.”

They sit in the quiet for a few minutes more, Caleb’s hand resting on Fjord’s head; Fjord doesn’t say anything, but every once in a while he presses up into it. Caleb doesn’t know whether he’s aware he’s doing it or not, but he’s not going to say anything if Fjord isn’t.

Eventually Fjord shifts, and Caleb pulls his hand back out of the way. It’s a slow process for Fjord to get up to sitting, and by the time he’s leaning in against the bars he’s panting for breath, skin washed-out with beads of sweat at his temples. Throughout, he doesn’t use his hands, which isn’t a surprise, but they hang limply from his arms, his fingers stiff and unmoving.

“How are your arms, Fjord?”

Fjord’s jaw ticks, eyes flicking down briefly to his hands before they come back up.

“They’re well as can be expected, I suppose.”

“I think you should try to heal them. At least a small amount.”

Fjord’s eyes swivel over to look at him.

“You made it _very_ clear that was not a thing I should do.”

“ _Ja_ , I know, and I am not saying to heal them completely, but Fjord,” Caleb gestures down at the other man’s hands, the swelling, the dark bruising. “I also do not want to risk permanent injury, incapacitation. I don’t want you to lose your hands if you do not have to.”

A shudder works through Fjord, his head hitting the bars with a quiet _thump_. “So, just enough, then, yes?”

Caleb nods. “ _Ja_ , just enough. Hopefully with them being wrapped as they are, it will be more difficult to notice. And with your other, newer injuries, you will still-” There’s no good way to say it. “-you will still exhibit signs of pain enough to be convincing.”

Fjord holds his gaze for a second, then nods, sighing. “Yes, alright. Just a touch, then.” It takes him a moment to maneuver his hands into position, and it causes obvious discomfort to do so, but once they’re positioned accordingly, it’s a matter of seconds for the magic to work.

Fjord has been able to do this for a little while now, ever since Uthodern, but it never ceases to amaze Caleb, seeing tangible proof of Fjord’s growth, his capabilities. The magic is a gentle sparkling green, flowing over Fjord’s hands and forearms as he whispers a quiet prayer to the Wildmother. The subtle glint of magic is reminiscent of the swirling sparkle of the special inks Caleb uses in his transcriptions. With visible effort the magic stops, and Fjord allows his hands to drop to his lap.

“There. Not too much. Just enough to feel my hands again and wish I couldn’t.”

It’s like a knife to the ribs, more so because of how matter-of-factly Fjord says it. As if it weren’t Caleb’s doing, as if he weren’t responsible for Fjord’s suffering. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for him, everything that happens to Fjord here, everything Wulf does to him, it’s in an effort to get to _him_ , to break Caleb, and he knows it. He knows it just as surely as he knows that he can’t tell Wulf what he’s been doing, can’t tell him about what he’s been learning in the Dynasty. It’s an awful position to be in, but it’s one of his own making. He did this, and he’ll have to find a way to live with it.

“I am sorry, Fjord, I should have warned you what would happen if he knew you were lying, I should have-”

“Caleb.”

His mouth snaps shut, and he almost can’t stand the kindness in Fjord’s expression.

“It’s alright.”

That punches a huff of laughter out of Caleb almost despite himself. “You know, we keep saying that to each other, and I think we both know it isn’t true.”

Fjord’s smile widens slightly, though the pain is still readily evident in the the careful way he holds himself. “Yes, but it beats drowning in misery, doesn’t it?”

“ _Ja_ , I suppose so.”

Caleb shifts, sitting back against the bars again so that he’s pressed up against where Fjord is leaning on his side. Despite the chill of the bars separating them, the warmth from Fjord’s shoulder against his own is comforting, a reminder that he’s not alone. It’s not much, but it’s enough to push the constant ache of his own injuries aside for the moment, to take quiet comfort in the closeness.

“I don’t blame you.”

Fjord’s voice is a quiet rumble that comes through as a light vibration where they’re pressed together in the spaces between the bars.

“You should.”

Fjord turns his head just slightly to be able to more easily see Caleb’s face. “You’re not the one who has me locked up here. You’re not the one making us suffer. You’re not the one who broke my fingers, or crushed my wrists in a vice until they were pulp. You didn’t hold the whips he beat me with. This isn’t you, Caleb. You aren’t to blame.”

As Fjord lists things off, Caleb’s shoulders draw tight, all the comfort he’d been enjoying leeching away with the awareness that he couldn’t begin to deserve it.

“Fjord-”

Twisting with a hitched intake of breath, Fjord turns to face him more fully. “You are no more to blame for this than I am for everything that happened on the water.” He sighs, rests his head against the bars. “I’ve been learning- through a great deal of effort, and certainly not on my own- that while I’ve made some...shall we say questionable decisions, I was also manipulated. I was vulnerable, and taken advantage of. From what I’ve heard of your story, I have to say it feels very similar.”

Caleb’s already shaking his head. “ _Nein_ , no, Fjord, I- I wanted to do everything I did when I was doing it. There was no manipulation, I was not on death’s door as you might have been. At every turn I could have decided to say no, to say _enough_ , and instead I decided that my pursuit of power and knowledge was more important, was worth whatever humanity I had getting lost along the way. I am here because I am a garbage person. You are here because you are not. Everything that happens to us here is the result of my previous actions.”

"I'm going to have to disagree with you, Caleb." Fjord untwists, sighing in relief as he sags against the bars again. "But not right now. I think I'm going to rest a bit before whatever's coming next."

Caleb doesn't say that he hopes it won't matter, that he hopes Wulf takes him instead; Fjord won't appreciate the sentiment.

What passes for dinner comes a short while later, and Caleb isn’t sure if it’s better or worse that Fjord doesn’t fight him about letting him use his water ration to wipe at the injuries. Fjord is quiet through the process, only an occasional hiss or hitched breath to indicate the pain Caleb knows he’s in. He’s been here himself, he knows what this feels like, and it isn’t fun; by now Fjord’s muscles will have grown stiff, and there’s no way to easily help them relax that won’t bring more pain. The bruising is deep and visible, turning the normal green of Fjord’s back the darker tones of seaweed. Where Caleb touches it, the skin is still hot, inflamed from the beating, and he wishes there were more he could do than gently pat at it with a dampened cloth. Regardless, Fjord thanks him when he’s finished, voice shaky, and settles in to pick at the meager offerings on his dinner tray. Caleb insists he drink, even if he won’t eat, and Fjord’s voice sounds better for it after, still scratchy, but no longer like he’s been swallowing diamond dust.

By the time he’s coaxed Fjord through drinking most of his waterskin and eating a little of the bread from his tray, Fjord is flagging, and Caleb relents.

“Rest now, friend, if you can.”

Fjord doesn’t say anything, wriggling down just enough that he’s horizontal, sprawled on his stomach, his head resting on one of his arms. It doesn’t take long for Fjord’s breaths to slow, to fall into the steady regularity of sleep. Caleb’s glad he’s managed; even if they do take him instead of Fjord in the morning, the next few days will be difficult. The second day is always worse, when all your muscles have tightened, the skin is sore and raw, and there’s no way to move without causing pain. Any rest Fjord can manage now will do him well later on when it isn’t so easily come by.

He finishes his own tray, moving it back to the front of the cell before returning to the bars opposite where Fjord is laying. He lies down, stretching out so he’s facing Fjord, less than a foot away on the other side of the bars. The lights are dim, the torches near burned down and needing to be replaced soon, but he’s close enough that he can make out Fjord’s face. There are smudges of bruising along his cheekbone, along the side of his jaw, and while Fjord had grown stockier with his connection to the Wildmother, his face has grown noticeably thinner since their arrival here. It’s been days, nearly a week by his count. He ruthlessly shoves the worry down, refusing to consider what might be happening outside, whether the others are coming for them. The only things he can affect change on are in here, and even then barely at all. It won’t do him any good to waste his limited energy worrying about things he doesn’t have the ability to impact.

Caleb comes awake, not sure when he fell asleep. It feels later, a _lot_ later, and he realizes it must be morning as the door in the hall clangs open. Fjord is just stirring on the other side of the bars, sucking in a hissed breath as he uses his elbows to push himself upright. Caleb is only a few seconds behind, and can’t help but watch the guards as they come into view, heart in his throat as he waits to see what will happen.

It sinks back like a stone into his gut as they stop at the door to Fjord’s cell again, and he wants to yell, to rage at them, to demand they take him instead, that he’s the one they want, with the _information_ they want, but that would only play into Wulf’s hands. Wulf has found Caleb’s weak spot, and is digging into it mercilessly. Wulf knows how loyal Bren was, and has assumed Caleb will harbor similar tendencies. He isn’t wrong, and it grates at Caleb how easily Wulf’s read him.

Because he’s so close, Caleb can hear the quiet noise Fjord makes before he locks his jaw shut, an expression of steely determination suffusing his features as the guards move into the cell to grab him. Fjord barely holds back another noise as they move him, and a simmering anger takes up position in Caleb’s belly as they drag him away, out of the cell and back down the hall to start the day’s interrogation.

He’s so focused on where Fjord has gone that he doesn’t notice Wulf until he clears his throat, startling Caleb.

“You know, _schatz_ ,” Wulf says, his arms up on the bars and leaning in. “You can stop this at any time. He suffers needlessly for your stubbornness.”

Caleb doesn’t bother to refute the nickname; that’s pointless to argue. However-

“He suffers because of you, Wulf, not me. I am not the one hurting him.”

“Aren’t you, though?” Wulf’s gaze grows more intense. “You’re the one refusing to stop this when it would be so easy to give in, even a little. A little information, _anything_ , would buy him a reprieve, and yet you persist in being mulishly stubborn. I would say you hurt no one but yourself, but I think you can see that isn’t the case.” Wulf’s head tilts, considering, and Caleb bites his nails into his palms in an effort to hold his gaze, to not squirm. “How much will be too much, I wonder? At what point do you say ‘enough’ and give in. Or is this information more important than his life? I have my orders, as I’m sure you’re aware. I have no way to go but forward. You though, you have a choice.” Wulf gives him one last look. “I’m sure he’ll last a while longer while we figure out what your limits are.”

With that Wulf turns and takes off down the hall.

Caleb stands, hands shaking with fury, and begins to pace.

He pulls Fjord’s words up in his mind, the ones absolving him of guilt, the ones that tell him he isn’t to blame; while the words come back easily enough, it’s difficult to hear the sincerity in the privacy of his own mind, and the words ring false and hollow. Rationally, he knows it’s somewhere between, not as much his fault as Wulf would have him believe, but more so than Fjord would think he deserves.

Time ekes by at a snail’s pace, no faster for his close attenuation to the passage of it. He’s on edge, shoulders tight and up near his ears. He doesn’t realize how closely he’s listening for any sound, for any indication of what’s going on down the hall until there’s a sudden echoed shout and he jumps, heart thundering in his throat.

He pauses mid-step, listening to hear if there’s more, but there isn’t, no sound but his own pulse hammering in his ears. With a snarl, he turns on his heel and approaches the closest wall, folding his hand into a fist as Beau has shown him numerous times before hauling back and hitting the unforgiving stone hard as he can.

The pain is grounding, as he knew it would be, but it isn’t enough to stop the flares of anger that continue to burn within him. His hand throbs, and while he wants to take another swing at the wall, anger not yet spent, he knows it isn’t worth the potential damage to his hands to risk it; especially not here where any harm he does himself isn’t likely to be healed any time soon.

He paces again, unable to control his anxious energies no matter how hard he tries to sit and be calm. He’s having trouble regaining his impartial mask, the one he knows he has to wear if he stands any sort of chance of holding up against Wulf’s onslaught, but it’s so hard, nearing impossibility when he knows Fjord is just down the hall, and they could be doing anything to him.

They could be doing anything, and here he is, powerless to stop it. _Useless_ , a voice whispers in his mind. _What is a wizard without their magic? What are_ **you** _without your magic? Useless._

The voice sounds suspiciously like Ikithon, but Ikithon would never allow any under his tutelage to be completely useless. Part of everything they’d undergone was in an effort to forge them into something that would hold up, something tempered so that even if their magic was removed, they could still fight, still complete the mission. The mission was all. The _Empire_ was all, and no lack of magic would be allowed to stop them. That’s not who they were, who they were training to be. No Scourger, no _Vollstrecker_ could be completely useless and allowed to live.

Just because the Empire isn’t his master anymore, just because he has different goals, different missions, doesn’t mean he can’t use his training to his benefit. He isn’t useless. He isn’t powerless. He’ll just have to do the same thing that Wulf is doing- find a weak point, apply pressure.

Simple.

Caleb blows out a breath as he stops pacing and sits near the back wall of his cell, hands on his knees as he closes his eyes to think. He can do this. He may not have passed the final test, but he did everything else. He’s as much a product of his training as Wulf is of his. He’ll just have to find a more creative way around the problem is all.

New goal in mind, Caleb focuses inward, and tries to come up with a solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: After this, the chapters will be coming one each day until they're all posted (I'm going back to work tomorrow and won't have time to edit two in a day).


	7. Chapter 7

It takes a force of will for Fjord not openly express his dismay at being taken again. If they hadn’t taken him, they’d have taken Caleb, and that’s the thought that sustains him as he’s dragged from his cell and back down the hall to the interrogation rooms. He’s taken to the room with the chair and shoved down, stifling a cry as his back hits it, his arms remaining unbound. It would be a waste anyway, he thinks; even with the small amount of healing he did to keep them from getting worse, they’re still mostly useless, stiff and painful and miserable.

The guards stay until Wulf appears a moment later. He approaches Fjord where he sits, pulling a necklace out from under his shirt, a raven’s feather wrought in silver. Without meaning to Fjord presses back into the chair with a grimace, but Wulf’s expression doesn’t change as he comes closer.

“Don't move, and I will heal you.”

The shock keeps Fjord still as Wulf sets his hands over Fjord's. He mutters a prayer, and magic flows up and out of him, washing over Fjord before he can do anything; it feels cool and smooth against him, like bone or porcelain. He grunts as the bones in his fingers realign and knit, as his wrists become whole once again. By the time Wulf is finished, Fjord’s hands and arms feel good as new, even the deep bruising and swelling gone as if it never happened. Wulf lifts his hands away, and almost immediately a pair of guards move in to strap Fjord down.

Wulf gestures to the guards once they’re done, dismissing them, and they leave, shutting the door behind themselves and leaving Fjord and Wulf alone.

“How are you feeling?” Wulf asks, grabbing the nearby chair and swinging it close to straddle, his arms resting easily along the back.

“Irritated, mostly. How about you, slept well?”

Wulf’s lips tip up in a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh I slept well enough. It’s always nice to enjoy the work you do. Makes it hardly seem like work at all, _ja_?”

Fjord scowls, unable to help it.

“Well, let’s not waste the day away, hm? Let’s get started.”

Wulf asks him about Caleb, about the time he spent in the Dynasty. He asks Fjord about his accent, about where he comes from, about whether he’s a spy. He asks seemingly irrelevant questions- Fjord’s favorite food, the name of his family, whether he has siblings, if he cares for mushrooms. It’s an effort to startle a response out of him, he knows, and he does his best to remain silent, to stare stonily ahead as Wulf asks.

“You have obviously spent time with Bren,” Wulf says, standing and rolling his shoulders before shrugging off his outer robe. “So you are likely familiar with his casting preferences. Tell me, does he still prefer fire?”

He does his best to keep his face neutral, but fails, Wulf nodding at whatever he sees on Fjord’s face.

“Excellent. Then this will look very familiar to you.”

Wulf mutters a word, twisting his fingers through the air, and a small bolt of flame leaps from his fingertips to Fjord’s arm, glancing off his bicep and burning a smoking hole through the dirty fabric of his shirt. Fjord shouts, more in surprise than pain, though the injury burns. Wulf begins his questioning anew, punctuating the pause between each question with another burst of fire.

“Were you with Bren in the Dynasty?” Flame skips across his shoulder. “Do you know what he was doing there?” Another blast across his left arm. “Where are you from, Fjord? Are you a spy?” Tongues of flame lick across his ribs.

By the time Wulf is done with him, his shirt is more cinder than fabric in the front, and he feels like one large burn, his skin tight and painful everywhere the flame has hit. The worst of the burns throb in time with his pulse, and he looks forward to the relief laying on the cold stone floor of the cell will bring him.

The guards unstrap him, and he’s already retreating into a quiet place in his mind, a place of peaceful calm that will make it easier to lie to Caleb, to tell him it’s not so bad, when-

“Ah, hold on, one more thing, please.”

The guards pause in hauling him up from the chair, tugging him forward and spinning him so his back is to Wulf.

“If you would- yes, perfect, thank you.” 

They grab his arms and wrench them behind his back, eliciting a hiss as the burns on his chest and arms pull with the motion, the lacerations on his back flaring with pain as they're compressed. He jerks a moment later as something closes around his wrists, and a sense of dread forms in the pit of his stomach as he feels metal spikes prick at the delicate skin there. The cuffs snap shut, the spikes digging in as they lock into place. It doesn’t take much to figure out what these are; he’d seen Caleb wearing a set but a week ago. A flare of worry that Wulf _knows_ builds in his chest, but he pushes past it, taking the risk to lie.

“But- but I’m not a caster!”

“I’m well aware.”

The guards grip him by the shoulders and turn him again so he faces Wulf, and every movement of his arms makes the spikes pull and tug.

“I’m going to make a deal with you. If you tell me where you’re from, what that very interesting accent is, then I’ll take the cuffs off. Easy as that. No muss, no fuss.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Fjord snarls. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell _you_.”

Wulf takes a step forward, and only the guards’ hands on him prevent Fjord from taking an involuntary step back. “Snap and snarl all you like; it’s only a matter of time. That anger that sustains you right now won’t last forever. You probably thought you wouldn’t break under the lash, too, and look where that got you.” Wulf grabs Fjord by the chin and forces his head up, meeting his eyes. “Of course, if anything becomes too much for you, I can give you a break. Let you rest. I’m sure Bren has missed my attentions terribly.”

A deep growl rumbles up from Fjord’s chest, and Wulf lets go of his chin, pulling back with an oddly neutral expression before turning to the guards. “You can take him back, now, I’m done with him for today.”

He wants to growl again in the face of Wulf’s arrogance, the _certainty_ , but Fjord stuffs it down, grinding his teeth as he stifles a response. He’s dealing with enough already without making things worse.

They reach the hallway, then the door to his cell, and the guards shove him inside. It’s difficult to maintain balance without his arms, and the cuffs pull as he instinctively tries to use them; he sucks in a breath as the spikes catch, but manages to steady himself.

A moment later Wulf and the remaining guards pass by. Wulf doesn’t say anything, just tosses a nod at Fjord, and this time he can’t hold back the quiet growl of frustration that rumbles up.

“Fjord?”

He gives his head a shake, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, ignoring the sharp pull at his wrists, the tightness of all the burned skin as he does, and heads to the bars, sinking carefully to his knees just on the other side of where Caleb’s moved to.

“Hey.”

Caleb’s eyes go wide, his face paling as he takes in the scorched skin, the shiny burns, the blackened holes in what remains of Fjord’s shirt.

“Caleb, it’s alright.”

The noise Caleb makes indicates it’s very much _not_ alright, but Fjord doesn’t know what else to say. It’s obviously not ideal, but it could have been worse, and he’ll live, at least for now.

One of Caleb's hands raises up as if to touch, then pulls back, fluttering in the air, uncertain. The poor man looks gutted, and Fjord wishes he knew what to say to help, to make it better; he doesn't, though, so he says nothing, leaning forward to rest his forehead momentarily on the bars.

"Why did they rebind your hands?"

"Well," Fjord sighs, sagging further forward, his arms are already tired from trying to hold them in a way that won't pull. "So, on the positive side, he healed my fingers and wrists. No broken bones, all good."

"That is good." The relief in Caleb's voice is audible, and Fjord braces for the next part, wishing he didn’t have to crush Caleb's mood.

"This is unfortunately the bad part." He pulls himself up and back from the bars, stifling a noise of discomfort as the burns pull, and pivots on his knees so his back is to Caleb.

There’s a brief pause followed by a flurry of what he can only assume is vehement Zemnian invective. He lets Caleb get it out, and flinches at an unexpected touch to one of his arms.

“Sorry, I-” The touch disappears a moment then reappears on both arms, just above his elbows. Caleb’s fingers are careful, avoiding burns where he can as he gently holds Fjord’s arms. “It can become tiring, after awhile. Give yourself a few moments to relax. I will help you.”

As Caleb holds his arms in position, Fjord lets go of the muscle tension and sighs quietly in relief. He’s reminded yet again of everything Caleb’s been through, everything he’s suffered, even back before they ever met. Caleb is about his own age, and Fjord can’t fathom surviving all he knows Caleb has, _suffering_ all Caleb has, and being even remotely as put-together.

Eventually they hear the sound of the door down the hall opening, footsteps of a guard bringing dinner, and Fjord pulls away. Caleb lets him go, but gives a fortifying squeeze to his arms before he does, his touch lingering a little longer than strictly necessary. Fjord isn’t going to complain. He’ll take what comfort he can.

Two trays get pushed through, along with water skins, and Fjord’s already figuring out how to get the tray and skin over to where they’ve been sitting when the guard’s voice breaks the quiet- "You’re not to help him. Boss’s orders.", directed at Caleb- then turns and leaves.

There’s a beat of silence, where Fjord takes in what’s on the tray- a thick, hearty stew, which smells amazing, making his stomach twist in hunger, a thick slice of crusty bread. The water skin is obviously full, laying right next to it, and Fjord realizes the predicament. The water will be largely impossible on his own; there’s no spoon with the stew, and he wouldn’t be able to wield it even if there were. The only way he can eat is to kneel down and eat straight from the bowl, like a dog at feed.

“No.”

It’s out his mouth before he can stop it, and he belatedly realizes he’s shaking with anger, his muscles gone rigid in suppressed fury.

“Fjord-”

“ _No._ I will _not_.”

His words are harsh and clipped, but he can’t control it, how the anger sharpens his tone. Caleb’s mouth snaps shut, lips pressing into a thin line as he stares at Fjord a moment before trying again, his voice soft and even.

“Do not make his job easier for him, _schatz_. He is just as stubborn as you are, and in the more advantageous position. Your pride is not worth your survival.”

“My _pride_?” Fjord turns, trying to repress the anger, trying not to let it fly at Caleb even though he’s the only available target; the spikes at his wrists dig as his arms flex unbidden. “You think this is- this isn’t just-” Fjord laughs, and it tastes just as bitter in his mouth as it sounds in the air. “Maybe it _is_ my pride, but I won’t be treated like an animal. I _will not_.” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he lets it out to recenter himself. “I have spent far too much of my life struggling to meet expectations while lowering my own. Trying not to appear to be too much, or a _beast_ , or- or whatever else people said I was, or thought I might be based on how I looked. I have spent so many years making myself less, making myself _acceptable_.” All at once the anger flows out of him, leaving him tired; he slumps back against the bars. “I will not allow that man of all people to make me do it again. Please don’t ask me to.”

Caleb meets his gaze, and his expression softens.

“As you wish, Fjord.”

Rising, Caleb fetches his own food and water; while he does so, Fjord moves to the back wall of his cell so he can sit up in the corner where stone meets the bars that separate them. It’s going to be difficult or impossible to rest comfortably lying down while he has the cuffs on, so he might as well find a way to do it now.

Caleb eats quickly and quietly, and Fjord wonders if it’s for his own benefit. The savory scent rising from his own bowl is making his stomach grumble, but he’ll be damned if he crawls over like a beaten mutt to eat on his knees. This isn’t the first time he’s been hungry; between growing up in an orphanage with too many mouths and not enough resources, and times on the sea where the winds died and trips took too long, he _knows_ this feeling. Caleb didn’t waste away in the few days before they started feeding him again, and neither will he. He’ll be alright for a bit. This isn’t enough to make him cave.

The evening drags on, Caleb finishing his food and pushing his tray back out of the cell. Fjord gets up only long enough to kick his own back out into the corridor before retreating to his corner and closing his eyes. He dozes more than sleeps, his arms cramping occasionally from the position. He breathes through it, rolling his shoulders the extent that he can. It pulls on his wrists, but it’s tolerable, not digging too badly; it doesn’t feel as if the spikes have broken skin yet, but that’s likely just a matter of time.

He’s startled from a light doze by the arrival of the guards, catching sight of Wulf preceding them down the hall. He’s gotten himself mostly to his feet by the time the guards approach him, and grits his teeth at the pain when they grab his arms and pull, aggravating the burns from the day before and making the spikes dig against the knobs of his wrists. There’s a glint from the next cell over as they hustle him along, the torchlight flashing in Caleb’s eyes as he watches them all go, and the worry on his face is plain to see. Fjord ignores it.

It’s the same hall as always, though this time it’s the right door, the one with the whipping post. He’s walked through just in time to see Wulf pull a wand from his pocket, aim it at a large stone basin in the corner, and give it a flick. Out of mid-air a steady fall of water starts, quickly filling the basin, and Fjord’s mind goes to static.

He knows what this is, and for the first time he _fights_ , heels digging in, throwing all his weight backwards. The guards aren’t expecting it, and for the briefest second he’s loose before there’s a shout and hands are grabbing at his shoulders and arms, wrestling him to his knees, and then to the ground. His chin clips the stone as he’s shoved down, his upper lip splitting on one of his tusks, but it hardly registers past the panic. He’s still struggling, unable to stop, when a knee plants itself uncomfortably between his shoulder blades, and he’s effectively trapped.

“I will admit that is a stronger reaction than I was expecting.”

Over his panting, Fjord hears Wulf move closer and kneel down, and then there’s a hand in his hair, yanking his head up and back to a painful angle so Wulf can meet his eyes. He’s not-quite-frowning, looking almost regretful. “I’m sure you won’t make this too easy, though, hm?”

Fjord can’t do anything, can’t move, can’t react. He wants to say something witty and biting, but it’s all he can do not to whine, not to beg, and Wulf hasn’t even done anything yet.

“Get him to the basin.”

They don’t get him all the way up off the floor, just grab his upper arms and _pull_ , dragging him mostly on his knees towards the basin. The cuffs snag at his skin, and it hurts, but he’s going numb from dread, can’t focus on anything but the basin and the gently rippling water inside. It’s been filled almost to the top, the surface dark, showing the black stone of the basin it’s held in, and Fjord’s mind flashes to a dark and angry sea, lightning flashing overhead, the crack of thunder turning into the rumbling boom of an explosion, wind rushing in his ears-

“Where are you from, Fjord?”

He doesn’t trust his voice, so he just clenches his eyes shut and shakes his head.

There’s a moment’s pause, and then the hands on his arms tighten painfully and he’s being shoved head-first over the lip of the basin.

There’s a hand between his shoulders, keeping him pinned, and he can’t get free, can’t get the leverage to pull back. He holds his breath as long as he can, but even he can’t hold it forever, and soon his lungs are burning with a need to breathe, but there’s no air here, just water.

He starts thrashing soon after, struggling against the fingers that grip and hold, and he’s just about to lose the battle, to breathe in, when he’s pulled back out.

His hair falls wet and dripping onto his face as he coughs, sucking much-needed air into his lungs.

“What was Bren doing in the Dynasty?”

Fjord is still gasping for air, trying to get in as much as he can, but he shakes his head, refusing.

“Again.”

He barely manages a deep breath before he’s plunged back beneath the surface.

By the third time he can’t hold his breath as long, accidentally takes in a partial lungful of water as they’re pulling him back out, and he coughs hard enough he aches. It burns in his throat, in his lungs; he’s dizzy with it, barely able to hear Wulf asking whether he’s a spy or not.

“Again.”

He can’t breathe, can’t think; the water is everywhere, up his nose, in his ears, in his eyes, flooding his mouth. He wants to scream, but there’s no sound; he should know that, how could he forget? He reflexively tries to cast Water Breathing, but he can’t form the somatic movements, can’t get the words out, doesn’t have the material component even if he could. As he struggles, he catches a glimpse of an eye in his peripheral vision, golden yellow and **_watching_** , and it only ratchets his panic higher. _No_ , he's supposed to be rid of the serpent, if not ever truly free. He’s supposed to be protected, _Mother help him_ , but the water, the water is _everywhere_ and he’s drowning, again and again and _again_ …

He loses track of how many times they put him under.

He doesn’t give them anything, couldn’t talk now even if he wanted to, throat raw and hoarse from coughing, lungs aching and burning from the water. Wulf has them drop him on the floor next to the basin, and it’s only then he starts to notice other things. His whole body hurts, aching from how he’s struggled; he’s cold, and wet, shivering against the stone. His wrists burn and sting, and he realizes he must have torn them up, the spikes digging and rending as he fought, though he hadn’t felt it at the time. He feels it now, though, as the guards get him up to his feet to leave for the day, the spikes dragging across torn flesh. He doesn’t stay on his feet long, unable to walk properly as his head swims, and they end up dragging him most of the way back. He’s thrown into his cell, landing hard with a grunt of pain, and curls on his side as much as possible as the door clangs shut and locks.

The footfalls fade and echo in the hall and there’s a rustling noise from the next cell over as Caleb moves.

“Fjord- _Fjord_ , can you answer me?”

It’s difficult to focus, the rushing of water in his ears drowning out almost everything else. Fjord doesn’t know if he’s actually hearing it in the rush of blood in his ears as he fights to come down from panic, or if he’s imagining it like the eye he’d seen.

Mother have mercy, he hopes he was imagining the eye.

It takes him another minute, and he can’t get up just yet, but he does manage to get his eyes open and lift his head enough to see Caleb pressed against the bars, hands around them in a white-knuckled grip. Fjord takes a breath to answer that ends in a hacking cough instead of words, his body curling in, still trying to expel water. Nothing comes up, and he’s left feeling even more wrung-out than he was before. His wrists and head throb in time with his heartbeat, and he’s seconds from letting his eyes drift shut again when he hears Caleb call his name.

“Fjord please, I need you to answer me.”

His thoughts are hazy, slipping through his grasp like trying to grab a handful of sand, but Caleb’s tone gets through. The whole time they’ve been here, even after the last few days, Caleb’s never sounded afraid; tired, resigned, sad, yes, but not afraid. He does now, though. Fjord doesn’t want to be the cause of that. He gathers himself together and forces himself into motion with a groan.

It’s slow going.

His limbs feel like they’re made of lead and it’s a struggle but he gets himself up to his knees. He’s panting for breath by the time he makes it, ready to topple sideways again, but Caleb’s calling him; he needs to make it at least to the bars before he can let himself collapse again. He shuffles over, falling against the bars with a grunt. It’s jarring, drawing a pained whine from him as the movement has the cuffs pulling on his battered wrists. Normally he’d try to stifle the sound, but he’s just too tired. The bars are cold, and it only makes the chill he’s already feeling seem to worm deeper. Even shivering hurts, he discovers, his muscles sore from struggling for what feels like hours on-end.

Fjord doesn’t realize his eyes have slid shut until there’s a scalding hot touch to his cheek and his eyes fly open. His breath hitches in surprise, and he only barely manages to suppress another coughing fit.

“Shh, _schatz_ , I am sorry I startled you.” Caleb’s hand is warm on his skin as he moves his hand to cup the side of Fjord’s face, cradling his jaw and rubbing his thumb over Fjord’s cheek. It’s deliciously warm, and Fjord doesn’t have the energy to resist turning his face into the contact.

“S’ok,” Fjord says. He’s tired, so _very_ tired. He just wants to sleep. 

He dozes, or thinks he does, anyway. The sound of dinner arriving is distant, and he doesn’t bother to pay attention. No doubt it’s something he can’t eat without giving in, and he’ll not bend himself in deference to the man holding them captive. He does shift himself up and away so Caleb is free to retrieve his own meal. There’s a brief moment of hesitation, and Fjord smiles, though it doesn’t feel convincing even to him.

“You said so yourself, Caleb. You need to eat, to keep your strength up. This doesn’t change anything.”

There’s a soft noise from Caleb that might be dismay, but Fjord’s already closed his eyes again, head pressing against the bars. He rests, the pain sliding to a background buzz in his mind as exhaustion creeps up on him, pulling him down toward sleep. He’s almost there when there’s a soft, “ _Fjord_ ,” followed by a light touch to his arm. He drags himself back from the edge of sleep.

“Hmm?”

“Let me see your wrists.”

He’s not awake enough to argue, just shifts himself around so he’s leaning back against the bars. Caleb hisses, and there are feather-light touches to his forearms. “I’m sorry, this will hurt, but it’s for the best.”

He doesn’t have a chance to ask what ‘it’ is before there’s tepid water being poured over the top of the cuffs to wash down under to his torn wrists. He shouts, in surprise and pain both, and makes to jerk forward, but Caleb grabs him by the arm, holding him in place, and Fjord’s in no condition to fight.

“ _Ja_ , I know, believe me I do, but even if this isn’t much, it will help. You cannot afford to let them get infected. Trust me.”

The thing is he does. He trusts Caleb implicitly, even if he’d really rather Caleb _not_ be doing what he’s doing. He knows there’s likely a story, some horrifying anecdote about someone Caleb knew- or gods above, Caleb himself- whose wounds had gotten infected, but he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with it. His whole consciousness at the moment is caught up in the pain in his wrists, the constant urge to cough, and willing himself not to move as Caleb does what’s necessary.

When Caleb’s done cleaning his wrists as much as he can with just water and more fabric pulled from his shirt, Fjord uses the last of his energy to get to the corner of the cell, and he’s barely stopped moving before he’s asleep again.


	8. Chapter 8

He doesn’t know what to do.

Caleb sits near the bars, watching Fjord sleep, and all his conviction that he wasn’t powerless, that he wasn’t _useless_ , has completely left him. Fjord is trying to soldier on, to hold up in the face of everything Wulf has done to him- of everything Wulf _will_ do to him- and Caleb knows it won’t be enough. As he’d said when Wulf first began to target Fjord, on a long enough timeline, the torturer always wins. It’s not a matter of internal fortitude or personal strength; it’s a matter of pressure, and time, and both of those things are in Wulf’s favor.

Sighing, Caleb runs a careful hand over his face. The bruising and swelling have diminished over the last few days, allowed to heal as Wulf has focused his attention elsewhere. It’s a tough position to be in, he knows- being grateful it’s not him, while at the same time wishing it weren’t Fjord. With only the two of them here, though, there’s not much other choice.

There’s a quiet noise from the next cell, and Caleb glances over to see Fjord shifting in his sleep, face pinched in discomfort even while in repose. The wave of guilt is suffocating, and it’s an effort to shove it down, to breathe past it. He can’t break, not here, not now; there is too much at stake. He takes in the planes of Fjord’s face, how tired he still looks even while asleep, the hollows under his eyes dark and bruised, thinner every day. He considers Wulf’s words, wondering what it will take. This can’t last forever- either Wulf will escalate too far, one of them will break, or both. Nothing lasts forever, not even captivity, not even torture, even if it feels like it does. There is always an endpoint, and he can’t help but feel they are quickly approaching theirs, one way or another.

Caleb has the time, when Wulf returns in the morning, to think how much he hates it sometimes when he’s right.

He’s dozed off at some point, slumped against the bars, but jolts awake to the sound of the door at the end of the hallway opening and footsteps approaching. He sits up, wincing as he stretches, and feels his stomach drop at the sight of not just Wulf, but a number of guards, far more than he’s accustomed to seeing at once. Wulf stops outside Fjord’s cell, and waits as one of the guards unlocks it before stepping in. This is a change, a difference of routine, and Caleb doesn’t like it one bit.

“Good morning, _Hündchen_. Rise and shine, as they say.”

Fjord is just stirring, but Caleb can tell he’s not entirely awake, not entirely present, and he feels his own pulse spike as Wulf moves over to Fjord, a further break from the routine. He sees it the moment Fjord realizes he’s not alone, the moment he senses the immediate danger. Fjord’s eyes widen and sharpen, his whole body going rigid. He tries to sit up, and there’s the briefest moment where he tries to get to his feet, but Wulf is already too close by then, squatting down and putting a heavy hand on Fjord’s arm. “I would love to continue taking my time with you, you are a _fascinating_ puzzle to unfold, but I have received word this morning that those in charge grow restless, so we must move things along, I’m afraid.”

Wulf makes no move to take Fjord out of the cell, and a cold, heavy weight settles in Caleb’s gut, spreading out in sluggish dread through his body. This is the tipping point; whatever catalyst for change he was expecting, the _thing_ he knew was coming, even if he didn’t know the shape of it, this is it. Wulf is about to press his advantage, do something to Fjord while making him watch, and he will need to make a decision. How much is the knowledge of the Dynasty worth? Is the knowledge and keeping it safe, keeping it away from the Empire, from _Trent_ , important enough to be worth Fjord’s life? Caleb already knows it’s more important than his own, but Fjord’s? That he doesn’t know. He wants to say it is, on principle, but the idea of letting Trent have his way, of snuffing out another life, a _good_ life, in pursuit of power makes his blood boil. He’s more than willing to sacrifice himself, but they don’t get to have Fjord.

Wulf uses his hold on Fjord’s arm to haul him forward onto his stomach, pulling him out of the corner he’s been resting in. Fjord lands with a grunt of pain, unable to soften the landing. Before he’s able to wriggle away Wulf is on him, straddling Fjord’s hips and pinning him down with a hand on his back.

“A little help, please.”

A pair of guards enter, moving to help hold Fjord down, and Caleb is up on his feet with no recollection of how he got there. The bars are cold in his hands, and his knuckles ache with how tight he’s holding on, wishing he could make them bend, make them move so he could close the distance, to stop whatever Wulf is about to do. 

Once Fjord is pinned to Wulf’s satisfaction, he reaches into a pocket, pulling out a scalpel. The blade shines in the low torchlight, glinting, and- _the straps on his wrist and forearm, helping to hold him still, even as he promises Master Ikithon he won’t move, Ikithon’s smile in response, assuring him that it’s necessary, to be_ sure _, the glint of a blade in his hand and a small green crystal on a tray nearby_ \- and the dread in his gut flares so strongly he thinks he might be ill.

Wulf is focused, intent, and Caleb can only watch as the other man uses the scalpel to cut away what’s left of Fjord’s shirt, tossing the dirtied fabric aside. Gripping Fjord’s forearm, Wulf holds it still while bringing the scalpel to bear, slicing with precision, drawing a hiss of pain out of Fjord in the process. He may be holding Fjord down, but it’s Caleb Wulf directs his words to when he speaks.

“You know that it is only a matter of time, _ja_? He will not wait much longer for this information, whether he gets it willingly or if he has to rip it from your mind himself.” Wulf presses, opening the wound in Fjord’s arm wider as Fjord yells and struggles, and Caleb can no longer feel the bars under his hands, his whole body gone numb in a panic.

“Wouldn’t you rather do it the way that _doesn’t_ cost you one more person you love? How many lives will you sacrifice, Bren?”

Wulf hands the scalpel off to one of the guards and pulls something out of his pocket; Caleb can’t easily see what it is- it’s too small- but he has a fairly good idea anyway.

“I would try to hold still for this part if I were you, _Hündchen_. You don’t want this to go in misaligned.” Wulf spares a glance up at Caleb before turning back to the man under him. “I’m sure Bren will tell you that’s not something you want.”

“His name is _Caleb_ , you fuck.”

“Ever-defiant, I see.” With that Wulf presses the thing in his hand into Fjord’s arm and Fjord _screams_ , back arching, but Wulf holds on, determined, and finishes pressing the item in, motioning to one of the guards who hands him a roll of bandage. As Caleb watches, Wulf winds the bandage around the new incision before securing it, helping to keep the incision under it inaccessible.

With another gesture, the guards out in the corridor move to Caleb’s cell, and Caleb takes an involuntary step back. They grab him, but instead of removing him from the cell, they drag him to the far wall that runs parallel to the bars that separate the cells. They lock his wrists into a set of irons on chains set into the stone floor, and when they’re done they move out, but leave the door open. Wulf has gotten up, leaving Fjord writhing on the floor, and makes his way to Caleb, wiping Fjord’s blood off his hands with a handkerchief. Wulf gives him a look that’s far too close to pitying for Caleb’s comfort.

“I’ve inserted a residuum shard into your friend. It‘s a small one, but I’m sure you recall how much of an effect even the smaller crystals had. I will put a new one in every day that you resist me. He's not a caster- how long until they burn him up from the inside? How long do you think he’ll last? All you have to do is tell me what you were doing in the Dynasty. For each answer you give me, I will remove one crystal. This doesn’t have to end in tragedy.” Wulf approaches and squats down in front of him so they’re eye-to-eye, and it takes everything Caleb has not to lunge for him, to try to throttle him with his bare hands. “You and I both know, deep down, how this will end, and it isn’t with you on top. You are ruthless, a survivor, and I appreciate that, but this isn’t something you’re in a position to win. You still have the chance to save him, to let one of you walk away from this. Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll send him on his way,” Wulf says, gesturing toward Fjord. “You can come back with me, it will be just like old times, _ja_?”

Wulf looks earnest, like he means it, but Caleb knows it’s just another manipulation; it _must_ be. Even if he were actually serious, he knows it could never end the way Wulf has said.

Ikithon doesn’t like it when people don’t do as he says, and Caleb hasn't done anything Ikithon’s wanted in years.

“That is a lovely lie, Wulf, but I think we both know it would not end that way.”

Regret flits across Wulf’s face, but it’s quickly subsumed until he wears an expression of forced neutrality.

“Well then, that is a shame.” Wulf stands, brushing imaginary dust off the knees of his trousers before exiting the cell and standing back as one of the guards locks it behind him. “I will be back tomorrow. I’d give my offer some thought.” He glances over at Fjord. “Unless you’re just curious to see how many shards we can fit in your friend before it kills him, in which case, by all means, keep being stubborn, _Mäuschen_.”

He leaves, the guards following after, and Caleb is immediately up on his knees, desperate to get closer. The chains at his wrists pull him to a stop only halfway across the cell, and he growls in frustration, tugging at them as if it will help.

Fjord is still laying on the floor where Wulf left him, no longer writhing as he was, but still occasionally spasming, back arching, and Caleb can’t imagine what it’s doing to Fjord’s wrists.

“Fjord, can you hear me?”

A strangled noise rips from Fjord’s throat that turns into a semi-hysterical laugh partway through.

“Fjord-”

“I hear you.” Fjord’s eyes are clenched shut, his face twisting in concentration as he manages to roll over to his stomach. He’s still panting, and even from this far away Caleb can see how Fjord’s muscles are rigid with tension, red starting to soak and spread into the white bandage on his arm, dribbling from under the cuffs at his wrists. “Gods, it’s so _much_ , isn’t it-”

“If you can, _schatz_ , you need to breathe- slow, deep breaths. Can you breathe with me?”

Shuddering, Fjord nods. “I’ll try.”

Caleb leads him through a breathing exercise, one he used when it was his turn under Ikithon’s knife; _his_ turn to try Ikithon’s new experiment, to _be_ Ikithon’s new experiment. He takes those thoughts and shoves them down. He has to stay present, has to stay in the moment. Fjord needs him, needs his help to make it through this, and he won’t fail him, he _can’t_.

Eventually, Fjord has enough control that the spasms are intermittent, though there’s still a fine tremor that’s constant. It’s an obvious struggle, but Fjord gets himself upright, and he shuffles over on his knees until he’s leaning up against the bars.

“How are you feeling?” Caleb asks, keeping his voice low. He remembers how it felt after the first crystal went in, how everything felt too much- too bright, too loud, so much more intense than he could have imagined, and that had been with training, with at least a minimum understanding of what was coming.

“How-” Fjord swallows, whole body giving a shiver. “How many of these things did you- did you have in you, by the end?”

Caleb stills, hands flexing at his sides. It takes a concerted effort not to rub his arms on reflex.

“I don’t see how that is relevant.”

“ _Caleb_.” Fjord rolls his head slightly so he can look at Caleb through the bars; his eyes are fever-bright, his skin holding an unhealthy sheen. “Please- how many?”

“Thirty-two,” Caleb says, voice hardly more than a whisper, and he _hates_ how he knows, how he remembers each one going in, the adjustment period after. “Sixteen in each arm, arranged in precise patterns.”

“Gods above,” breathes Fjord, and Caleb looks up to find Fjord watching him intently. “How the fuck did- you were- you were a _child_ and he did this to you-”

“It wasn’t anything I hadn’t signed up for, Fjord. I welcomed it; I _volunteered_.”

Fjord holds his gaze and Caleb squirms, wanting to hide from the intensity.

“You were a child, Caleb.” Fjord’s voice is once again kind, far kinder than Caleb expects or deserves, and it grates at him.

“That is not the _point_ , Fjord. I have answered your question. I feel it is only fair for you to answer mine. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve had too much coffee all at once. I can feel it _everywhere_.”

“I’m so sorry, Fjord." Caleb sits back on his heels and hugs himself, giving in to the desire to dig his fingers into his arms, the chains rattling as he moves. "I will think of something to tell him, something small, nothing too detrimental to the Dynasty."

" _No_." Fjord is shaking his head, but he can’t seem to lift it; it’s more rolling along the bars than anything else.

“What- what do you mean, ' _no_ '? This will _kill_ you, Fjord.” There’s no reason not to be blunt about it. “This is it. Enough of those things in you and you’ll burn bright and fast like a sparkler. There’s no reason for you to die this way.”

Fjord looks at him, really _looks_ , and Caleb can see the effort it’s taking for Fjord to focus on him.

“Even if you were to tell them everything, do you really think they’d let me go?”

It’s an honest question, asked sincerely, and as much as Caleb wants to lie, he can’t. Not to Fjord, not now.

“No," Caleb says, and it's like a physical pain to admit it. "No, I don’t think they would.”

Fjord nods. “Then I have a counter-proposal.”

Huffing a humorless laugh, Caleb drags his hands across his face. “What sort of counter could you possibly have?”

“Let him put another in.” At Caleb’s look of astonishment, Fjord smiles, though it’s strained. “Maybe two, but most likely one. When he comes for the third, I’ll break. Tell him where I’m from. Hope he takes the cuffs off like he said. These crystals, you said they enhance power, right? He won’t be expecting it. Otherwise he’d never have put the crystal in me in the first place, he wouldn’t have risked it.”

It strikes Caleb, and not for the first time, that Fjord has a more tactical mind than he’s often given credit for. The plan, such as it is, could work if played correctly. But-

“If it goes wrong,” Caleb says slowly, mind already following threads of possible outcome. “If it goes wrong, you will have shown your hand. There will be no coming back from that. If he doesn’t kill you outright, you will likely wish he had.”

“Maybe,” Fjord acknowledges with a tilt of his head. “But if it _doesn’t_ go wrong, if it _works_ , that could be our chance to get out of here. It might be our _only_ chance. As much as I want to think the others are coming, we don’t have the time to sit and wait. Especially now that he’s given an ultimatum, our timeline is very short.”

“ _Ja_ , I am well aware.” Caleb thinks another moment or two. “If we are going to do this- if _you_ are going to do this- we need to prepare you as much as possible. I understand the circumstances are not ideal,” Caleb says with a rueful smile. “But if you want any chance of controlling your power when you try to use it, some preparation is in order.”

At that, Fjord sits up a little straighter, body still trembling, but gaze strong and intent.

“So, we're doing this, then?”

“ _Ja_.” Caleb almost can’t believe he’s saying it. “I suppose we are.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Thirty-two crystals_.

Fjord can’t stop thinking about it, even after they stop for the evening, even as he’s supposed to be resting, propped back up in his corner, eyes closed.

His skin is buzzing like he’s going to turn inside out, and that’s with just _one_. He’s always been amazed at Caleb’s tenacity, his strength. He’s not only seen Caleb survive things that would have felled a lesser man, but seen him cast _through_ them, and he knows that’s only a fraction of what Caleb’s been through in his life.

Tilting his head to look into the other cell, Fjord takes Caleb in; he’s curled up against the far wall, asleep, head pillowed on his arms. The dark metal of the shackles on Caleb’s wrists are a sharp contrast to Caleb’s pale skin, and something about seeing Caleb in chains rankles Fjord on a level he doesn’t want to look at too closely. It’s a challenge to keep the anger in his chest contained, to stuff it down so it doesn’t come roiling up out of him in a snarling growl. 

The crystal in his arm doesn’t make it easier.

The power of it thrums through him like a living thing, and it’s easy to think he could do anything with it helping him, but it’s not enough, and he knows it. Wulf is a serious threat, and if Fjord can gather more power to himself before taking the chance at escape, then by the gods, he’ll take it. He knows Caleb is worried, that much is obvious. Caleb led him through breathing exercises, guided meditations that were oddly similar to the ones Caduceus has begun teaching him, all meant to help him channel the power bubbling through him so he controls _it_ , rather than _it_ controlling _him_.

He can’t imagine feeling more powerful than he does now, can’t wrap his mind around the idea of what another crystal will do, but he knows whatever it does and however it feels, he has to withstand it. He can’t let Caleb down, can’t ruin this chance.

No matter what, he knows it’s just a matter of time before Wulf decides he’s served his purpose and gets rid of him, taking Caleb off to whatever fate awaits him in Rexentruum, and Fjord can’t let that happen.

_Won’t_ let that happen.

The night passes slowly, the power from the crystal a constant irritant hum in his body and mind. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore how hungry and thirsty he is; the residuum had given him a boost of energy, but his mouth and throat are so dry he almost longs for the basin of water from the other day, if only to not feel so parched.

He’s dozing when the loud clang of his cell door opening rouses him, and there’s Wulf, with a small group of guards at his beck and call. It’s easier this time, knowing what Wulf intends, and Fjord feigns more weakness than he feels. He doesn’t have to fake fighting back- he doesn’t think he could stop himself from struggling if he tried- but the end result is the same. However much he tries to resist, it isn’t long before Wulf has him pinned again, just as the day before. The guards help, though Fjord can tell they aren’t having to try as hard as before. The deprivation of the last few days, plus the stress of the first crystal have combined to be taxing, and if it weren’t what he wanted, part of his plan, it would be embarrassing how easily they’re keeping him pinned in place despite his struggles.

Wulf is a man of symmetry, it would seem. He goes for Fjord’s uninjured arm with his scalpel this time, and the feel of the blade slicing in is just as sickening as it was the day before. That sensation doesn’t quite hold a candle though to the small residuum shard being pressed inside and shifted until it’s where Wulf wants it.

Fjord screams.

He can’t help it. However much Caleb tried to warn him, Fjord had thought himself prepared. After everything he’s been through since arriving here, he thought it couldn’t be much worse than having the first crystal put in, that incessant buzz under his skin, making it crawl.

This is so much worse than he could have imagined.

It’s like being struck by lightning, being lit up from the inside. He has just enough thought left to wonder if it’s what Yasha feels when she communes with her god, before he isn’t aware of much for a while. He comes to with a dull throb in both wrists from where they’ve torn open again on the cuffs, and a constant, searing pain in both arms where he knows the crystals are embedded in his flesh.

“Fjord?”

It’s an effort to open his eyes, to do anything but lie there, riding the ebb and flow of power streaking through him. And there _is_ a flow to it, he realizes as he focuses; it runs in tandem with his heartbeat, and it takes an almost conscious effort not to flex his fingers and let the power out, to keep it contained within himself. It would be so easy to let it go, to give his anger and frustration and _hurt_ an avenue for relief. The power wants out- zinging through his veins and bubbling up like a wellspring, searching for a crack, the tiniest weak spot-

“ _Fjord_.”

He grits his teeth at the sharpness of Caleb’s voice, and forces the power back, shoves it down. He imagines a strong box, like Caleb suggested the night before. Imagines the solid wood, the thick bands of iron running over and around it. Clearly pictures the heavy lock on the front that even Veth would be challenged to open. He takes all the power running through him, and shoves it in the box, mentally slamming the lid shut and snapping the lock into place. Even after, the power crackles through him, but it’s easier to think, easier to move.

It still takes time to get into motion, to push up to his knees, another minute to struggle upright. He’s dizzy by the time he succeeds, though whether from the crystals or the lack of food and water, he isn’t certain. What he _does_ know is that there’s no way he’ll manage a third crystal, not in the state he’s in now. Reality feels soft, _malleable_ in a way he’s unaccustomed to, like he could will the cell bars to melt away if he wished. He’s pretty sure that isn’t actually possible, but it doesn’t stop him from desperately wanting to try. Instead, Fjord pulls himself together and opens his eyes again.

He’s closer to the barrier between their cells than he realized, and when he glances through he can see Caleb, halfway across his own cell, arms pulled slightly behind by the shackles, like he’d be closer if he could. Fjord shuffles a little further so that he can lean forward against the bars, and the coolness of the iron against his face is a relief for the burning in his veins.

“Fjord-” Caleb’s voice is softer now, though it doesn’t carry any less. Even if he couldn’t see it, Fjord thinks he’d be able to easily imagine the look of concern, worry pinching around Caleb’s eyes.

“I’m-” He wants to say ‘ _alright_ ’, but pauses. “-okay. For now.” His voice shakes despite his attempts otherwise, but it’s better than he’d been expecting.

“You won’t be able to take much more of this.” 

Caleb’s quiet words echo Fjord’s own thoughts, and he nods in agreement. “I know. I just have to make it ‘til morning and hope that he’s willing to provide the bit of carrot he promised. Do you think he’ll hold his end of the bargain?”

Caleb gives it a moment’s thought, then nods. “I think as long as you sell it well enough, he will. You’ve likely held out longer than he thought you would, and will be expecting you to break soon.” Another moment’s pause, and then, “Most would have broken much sooner.”

Fjord huffs a laugh and can’t quite disguise the wince as it jostles his arms. “To be fair I did, at least a little.”

Caleb hums in response, then shakes his head. “You bent. A little sharply, perhaps,” he says with a wry smile. “But you didn’t break. Breaking would have been telling him anything you could to make him stop. Breaking would have meant answering questions he hadn’t even asked yet. You are not broken, Fjord.”

He knows Caleb doesn’t mean it how he’s taken it, but Fjord can’t help the lump that forms in his throat, knowing if he were any more hydrated he’d likely feel the sting of tears.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, letting more of his weight fall against the bars.

Some time later a few of the guards return, one going into Caleb’s cell to bring him food and water since he can’t reach where they’d normally leave it, and three entering Fjord’s cell. He can’t quite stand, not before they reach him, and he tenses, but they don’t seem to have any inclination to hurt him specifically. Two of them grab him by the shoulders, pulling him to the center of the cell while the third moves closer, and that’s when Fjord notices the water skin in his hands. He was already feigning more weakness than he felt, and now he stops fighting entirely, not wanting to give them any excuse to stop. One of the guards at his shoulders moves a hand to Fjord’s hair, wrenching his head back to a painful angle, giving it a shake, pulling a pained noise out of him before he can stop it.

“No funny business, you hear? Or you get nothing.”

Fjord licks his lips, not having to work too hard to look cowed. “Understood.”

The guard gives him one more shake before relenting slightly, letting Fjord tilt his head forward again to meet the spout of the water skin the third guard is holding up. They more pour water out at him rather than letting him drink, but after being without for so long, it almost doesn’t matter. He drinks as much as he can before they pull the skin away, and he can’t hold back the sound of desperation, even if he manages not to let it turn into actual words. The two guards holding him toss him back to the floor, and he misses them leaving the cell entirely as he struggles to control the pain of landing on an arm near one of the crystals, never mind his wrists. He comes back to himself a moment later to hear Caleb’s voice calling to him softly.

“Fjord...Fjord are you alright?”

“Nng-” He manages to roll over and get up to his knees, though it pulls at his wrists something fierce. “Surprisingly better, actually.”

There’s a huff of laughter from Caleb, though his voice is somber when he speaks. “I wish I could share my water with you, _schatz_.”

“What was it you said to me when we first got here?” Fjord makes it to the back wall again and tucks himself into the corner against the bars. “That it wouldn’t be worth the punishment?”

“You are, though.”

And he says it so simply, as if it’s just plain fact, clear as day, that Fjord’s heart twists in his chest.

“So are you.”

A quiet calm settles over them as Caleb finishes eating and shoves his tray over to the side. If all goes well, even remotely according to plan, then it might not be much longer before they’re either out, or dead.

_Or worse_ , Fjord’s mind supplies, but he chooses to ignore that. There’s no room for that sort of thinking.

With nothing else for it, he settles as comfortably as he can, and lets his prayers to the Wildmother and the steady thrum of the power in his veins pull him toward sleep with the hope of a better tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s madness.

It’s madness, and a terrible idea, and Caleb is achingly familiar with madness and terrible ideas both.

Their time has run out, one way or another. Fjord won’t survive another crystal, caster or no. He’s strong, one of the strongest people Caleb’s ever met, but he’s unprepared, hasn’t gone through the weeks of preliminary training he and his cohort had. What he’s managed to impart to Fjord has gotten him this far, but it can only do so much.

Caleb lies awake in his cell, listening to Fjord’s slow and steady breathing, and wonders how he’s managing to sleep. For his part, as exhausted as their time here has made him, his mind won’t stop spinning, trying desperately to come up with something- _anything_ \- that will mean Fjord doesn’t have to put his plan into action in the morning.

He has nothing.

So here he lies, staring up into the darkness instead of sleeping as he should be. However things go in the morning, he knows he’ll need to be well-rested as possible. Staying up worrying about something he can’t change isn’t helpful, but he seems incapable of doing anything else.

The ideas keep chasing each other, one after another, all discarded as useless as the hours slip by, and by the time Caleb knows dawn is approaching, he’s no closer to a solution than he was the night before.

A couple hours later the door down the hall opens, the sound of footsteps getting closer, and he breathes, trying to stay relatively calm, and remember what he and Fjord had discussed the night before.

_‘If you can-’_ Fjord had said. _‘If you can, if he actually takes the cuffs off, try to get him alone. I might be able to get the jump on him, but I can’t fight him_ and _the guards. If you can get him alone, doesn’t matter which cell he’s in, I should be able to make it work.’_

Caleb had agreed to try, to do his best, but now that the moment of action is approaching, his nerves threaten to get the best of him. Again, he is reminded what madness this is, to go up against a full Scourger, especially in the state Fjord is in. He himself won’t be of any help, chained and powerless; it will be entirely up to Fjord. As the first guards come into sight, Caleb thinks that at least one way or another, this is likely to be done soon.

“Good morning,” Wulf greets as he strides into view. He glances into Fjord’s cell, and when Caleb follows his line of sight it’s to see Fjord gently trembling in his corner; Caleb is reasonably certain he wasn’t doing that before the guards came down.

Opening the cell, Wulf enters, followed by a few of the guards at a safe distance. He kneels down in front of Fjord, not touching, and when he quietly calls Fjord’s name, the man in question startles, as if waking from a doze.

The angle and bars between them makes it difficult to fully see Fjord’s expression, but Caleb can only guess it’s suitably terrified based on how Fjord sounds as he starts to beg.

“ _No_ \- no, please, I can’t- not another, _please_ -”

Only the awareness that Fjord is acting keeps Caleb from a full-blown panic attack. It’s necessary for success, but Caleb does wish he were not so good at it; it sounds convincing, even knowing it’s not real.

Fjord is trying to dig his feet in and move back, away from Wulf, but he’s in a corner, and Wulf easily grabs him by the arm and pulls him forward. There’s a cry of pain as he does, and a grunt as Fjord hits the ground on his front again. Wulf moves to steady him, when-

“Port Damali!”

Wulf pauses, fingertips just barely touching Fjord’s trembling arm.

“What was that, _Hündchen_?”

“I’m-” Fjord drags a rasping breath in. “I’m from Port Damali, just- _please._ ”

“See, now that was not so difficult, was it?” Wulf’s hand moves away from Fjord’s arm to his hair, giving it a ruffle, and Fjord shudders under his hand.

Fjord’s arms move, a pained sound pulling from his throat as his fingers flex. “Please, you said- you said you would take these off if I told you.”

“That I did.” Wulf stands, then gestures to the guards near the door. They come close and haul Fjord up to his knees, drawing another cry from him as they pull his arms. “But first, I think a bit of guarantee is in order.”

Even through the bars, Caleb can see the whites of Fjord’s eyes as they go wide and frightened, again trying to pull back. The guards hold firm, and when Wulf steps closer and speaks, his voice has a resonance that Caleb recognizes as him casting something.

“You will not remove the crystals from your arms.”

Fjord’s eyes turn glassy, body going temporarily lax in the guards’ hold.

“I will not remove the crystals from my arms.” Fjord’s voice is flat, emotionless, and it sends a chill down Caleb’s spine.

“Excellent!” Wulf turns to one of the guards, gesturing down at Fjord’s hands. “If you would, please. A deal is a deal, after all.”

The cuffs come off and Fjord groans as he’s dropped to the ground at Wulf’s feet, curling forward around his arms now that he can.

“ _Thank you-_ thank you, thank you-” Fjord just keeps repeating it quietly, and Caleb is suddenly not so sure whether Fjord is acting anymore.

“You are welcome.” Wulf glances in Caleb’s direction, meeting his eye. “As you see, I keep my word. There is no reason for either of you to continue suffering. We could wrap this all up very quickly if you would but tell me what I wish to know.”

Unable to hold the eye contact, Caleb’s eyes flick down, watching Fjord where he trembles, face turned towards the floor.

When he doesn’t respond, Wulf sighs, and gestures to the guards to leave.

“As you wish. I will be back again tomorrow to add another crystal and see-”

“Wulf.”

The man stops in his movement towards the cell door and makes an inquiring noise.

“I-” Caleb’s throat has suddenly gone very dry, his pulse hammering and he’s sure Wulf must know, must be able to sense it somehow. “I would speak with you. A minute.” He swallows. “Please.”

Wulf gives him an assessing gaze, then nods. He makes his way out of Fjord’s cell, locking it behind him, and gestures to the guards, dismissing them as he moves towards Caleb’s.

Coming closer, Wulf opens and enters his cell, though Caleb notes he’s staying out of the range of where the chains reach.

Caleb looks up at him, trying to think of what to say, Fjord’s muttering a constant drone in the background.

“Why do you do this, Wulf?”

“How do you mean?”

Caleb gestures, trying to encompass Fjord, himself, the cells they’re in.

“All of this. Is it something you truly _believe_ in, or do you just think you haven’t any other choice?”

“ _Mäuschen_ ,” Wulf says, and his tone is pitying, as if speaking to a particularly dull apprentice. “The same way you must do what you must, so must I. Despite what you might think, I take no pleasure from hurting you, from hurting him. As you know it is a means to an end. Our master has need of this information, and so I must obtain it. You know how this works.”

“ _Your_ master,” Caleb can’t help but spit. “ _Not_ mine.”

Wulf speaks again, and Caleb realizes something's changed, though he can’t immediately tell what. After a moment though it hits him.

He can’t hear Fjord muttering anymore.

It’s just as he has this thought that Wulf cuts off mid-sentence with a choked noise, eyes going wide. He stumbles forward, and just behind him Caleb can see Fjord, Star Razor in-hand. A moment later Fjord is gone again, nowhere to be seen when Wulf spins, trying to find him.

A few seconds pass and Fjord blinks back into the cell, just next to Wulf again, catching him by surprise. He takes a swing and misses, but the second connects, and as it does there’s a flash of radiant energy.

To his surprise though, it’s not just Wulf crying out in pain.

There’s a surprised shout from Fjord and when Caleb catches sight of him again one of the bandages on his arms has been shredded, red staining through. He just barely hears Fjord gasp out the activation word for his blade as he blinks back out again.

Wulf meanwhile is over the initial surprise, and despite being wounded appears to be smiling.

“All sorts of surprises, hm, Bren?”

He’s standing, hands in a ready position, and Caleb knows he’s just waiting for a target to present itself.

He’s not waiting long when Fjord appears again in his own cell, but the cover the bars might provide does nothing to stop the sickly miasma Wulf sends through. It hits and Fjord staggers, hand going to the wall to remain upright. Through it though, his face sets, determined, and Caleb sees Fjord do something that he knows- _knows_ \- shouldn’t work.

And yet, despite knowing that it shouldn’t work, it does, and with a stifled scream from Fjord, a lance of lightning strikes down, hitting Wulf just before Fjord blinks out again, the other bandage now ruined and bloody as well.

The fight continues, fast and intense, Fjord blinking in and out, but Wulf getting his shots in as well, though after a few hits from the continued witch bolt, Wulf isn’t looking his best. Caleb tries to move back and away, to stay clear, but Fjord blinks out again and Wulf dives for Caleb, trying to get a hold on him as Caleb does his best to fight him off.

Wulf is looking rough, but even like this he’s able to get a hand into the collar at Caleb’s throat, yanking up until Caleb has to get to his feet or risk being strangled. He tries to get Wulf to let go, but Wulf only grabs his wrist, twisting his arm up behind his back until Caleb’s gritting his teeth against it, trying not to scream.

“I know you can hear me,” Wulf says. “If you surrender now-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence as Fjord reappears right next to him and jabs in with his sword, hitting Wulf between the ribs.

One moment Wulf is holding him hostage, and the next _Wulf_ is gone, Fjord now fully next to him for the first time in days.

“What- what did you-”

“Banished him.” Fjord takes the two steps he needs to get to Caleb’s side, immediately trying to see how to get him loose. The collar can ostensibly wait until they’re free, but the cuffs at Caleb’s wrists are a problem. They don’t have keys, and no easy way to get them. If Caleb were able to cast he could get them off, but as it is he’s utterly useless.

They waste countless seconds pulling, Fjord digging at where the chains are anchored with his sword, desperately hoping that the masonry might give, but no such luck.

“Fjord, you must run.”

“Like _fuck_ I will, Ca-”

“No, Fjord, look- _look at me_.”

A pained expression crosses Fjord’s face, but he does turn to look.

“ _Schatz_ , you can’t get me free before he will return. If you can run, if you can get away, you can get the others.”

He doesn’t say that if Fjord runs, it’s very likely that neither Fjord nor any of the Mighty Nein will ever see him again.

Fjord’s face twists in a snarl of frustration as he yanks on one of the chains again.

“I’m not going to _leave you here_ , Caleb. Not after all this. I will not lose you.”

And he sounds so confident, so sure of himself that Caleb half believes him, but he knows better. Knows what happens to people like him when they’re dragged back to Rexentruum. Knows that even if the Mighty Nein _do_ find him again, he doesn’t know how much of him will be left. 

He just needs to convince Fjord to run, to go while he can, while at least one of them has a chance, he needs-

Wulf reappears with a quiet _pop_ , swaying in place, but not yet finished. There’s a flash of metal and radiant energy, and Fjord stifles a scream as he drops to his knees clutching at his side. Wulf gets blown back into the barrier between the cells by a retributive flash of radiant energy himself, and doesn't get up again. He stays where he lands against the bars, and Caleb knows for all intents and purposes he’s done. He knows well-enough what it looks like when the fight leaves someone, and he’s seeing that now on Wulf.

Next to him, Fjord is getting back to his feet, one hand still pressed to the stab wound at his side, the other in a tight-knuckled grip around Star Razor. He turns to advance on Wulf, and Caleb grabs his arm.

“Wait.”

“Cay, we can’t take the chance. At least let me knock him out.”

“Kill me.”

Both Caleb and Fjord stop, the cell becoming deathly quiet.

“Why would we do that?” Wulf looks rough, but Caleb knows he’s survived worse than this; they’ve _both_ survived worse than this. It won’t be pleasant, but it’s possible. “Let us go, Wulf, and we will let you go as well, and we can just- move on.”

Wulf laughs, though it sounds wet, and there’s a small splash of red at his lips that doesn’t bode well.

“And what do you think Master Ikithon will say to our ‘moving on’? To the fact that I had you in my grasp and let you go?” He shakes his head, eyes sliding shut. “If I'm alive, I have to see this through. Killing me now would be a mercy compared to what he’ll do to me if I come back without you, if he thinks I'm compromised."

“It does not have to _be_ like this.” Caleb tries to step closer and growls in frustration when his chains pull him up short. “You don’t have to go back.”

Opening his eyes again, the look Wulf gives him is resigned, almost sad. “I think you know more than most what happens to those of us who run. He will hunt me down, he will find me, and he will make of me the sort of example he wants to make of you."

“But he doesn’t have to. Take my necklace.”

Beside him Fjord protests, but Caleb quiets him, never taking his eyes off his old friend.

“It was confiscated with my things. It has been useless to me since the rest of my companions became known to him. If I stay with them- and I intend to- then he will be able to find me anyway. However, if _you_ take the necklace, he won’t be able to find _you_.”

Wulf actually looks like he’s considering it for a second, but then shakes his head. “I can’t leave her, Bren. You don’t know what he was like after we lost you. If he loses me, too? I can’t run and leave her to that. I won’t.” His eyes flick to Fjord, then back to Caleb. “No more than you could leave him.”

“Wulf,” Caleb sighs. “What did you tell me the first day you had me in your chair? Are you telling me you lied when you said you’d learned new things? That you haven’t learned how to extract a difficult target in the more than a decade since I’ve seen you? If you cannot leave her, then don’t. But do not throw your life away. _Dieser Mann hat uns schon genug genommen._ ”

Wincing, Wulf huffs a laugh. “You know, you always were the most eloquent of us.”

Despite everything, Caleb can’t help but smile. “ _Ja,_ I know.”

“The things I let you talk me into, _Mäuschen, Ich schwöre, du wirst mein Tod sein._ ” Wulf digs into a pocket, and tosses something over that hits the floor and skids across the stone- a set of keys. Fjord looks a breath from falling over, so Caleb kneels to retrieve them, freeing himself from the chains.

He stands again, getting a hand on Fjord to help steady him before leaning in.

“Will you be alright to walk out of here?”

Fjord nods, eyes shutting in concentration. “Yes, just give me a moment.”

Caleb hears him mutter some quiet words- a prayer to the Wildmother, he assumes- and Fjord’s shoulders drop slightly in relief at the soft green glow that springs from his hands, flowing into the wound at his side and closing it, if only temporarily.

Between one blink and the next, Fjord has made himself look like Wulf, and the effect is eerie. On the floor, Wulf’s eyebrows have disappeared into his hair.

“You were holding out on me, Fjord.”

“ _Ja_ , well,” Fjord says, voice deeper than normal, words flowing out in the same cadence and accent as the man at his feet. “I’m sure you understand.”

Wulf nods, waving them off. “Go now, before any of them get suspicious about what’s taking me so long. I will do my best to give you some time, a head start before they realize _both_ of you are gone.”

They make to leave the cell, and despite the sincerity Caleb’s been observing in all of Wulf’s words, he can’t help but be wary as they head towards the stairs, Fjord’s hand gripping his arm tightly. He’s still halfway convinced that Wulf is going to jump up and attack, is going to come after them while their backs are turned, but he doesn’t. When Caleb risks a quick glance back, just before they move out of sight, Wulf is looking back at him, face grim, but eyes soft.

They make it through the door to the stairwell, closing it behind them, and Fjord’s grip on his arm tightens. It’s only because of that that Caleb can tell how badly Fjord’s hand is shaking.

“I’m going to do my best, but if you could look suitably broken and or terrified, it would be greatly appreciated.”

Nodding, Caleb schools his face, lets his shoulders hunch up as much as possible, trying to look small, letting Fjord’s grip on him determine his movements as if he’s being dragged and manhandled around. They crest the stairwell, and there’s a guard there, leaning against the wall, who jumps to attention as they move closer.

“I’ve gotten what I need from this one. I’m taking him to dispose of him appropriately. I still have work to do on the one below, and will return for him when I am ready. _No one_ is to go down there until I return, is that understood?”

The guard’s brow furrows, a look of confusion crossing their features as they look them over.

“Sir, our instructions are-”

“Your instructions are to do what you are told, _ja_?” Fjord’s tone has gone icy, and when he’s not about to pass out from nerves, Caleb will have to commend him for his exemplary impression. It’s incredible, Caleb thinks, that despite the shape he knows Fjord to be in currently that he somehow still manages to be so imposing. “And I have told you what to do. Is there a _problem_?”

“N-no, sir. We won’t go down. We’ll await your return.” The guard stands at attention, saluting, and Fjord rolls his eyes, dragging Caleb down the hall and around a corner. Once they’re a little further away, Fjord slows to a stop, pausing to take a shuddering breath.

“If you can, I don’t quite remember the way.”

He sounds sheepish, his expression only slightly out of place on Wulf's features.

“ _Ja_ , I think I can get us out.”

It takes them longer to get out than it had taken to get in. They pause only once, so Fjord can ask where confiscated items are kept, explaining he requires the spellbooks to destroy along with the criminal himself. It’s tense, and more than once Caleb is certain they’re about to be found out, but they aren’t, and they reach the exit out into the early morning air with Caleb’s spellbooks, unmolested. Fjord manages to talk their way out past the gate, and Fjord points them towards the trees that lie a hundred yards from the compound wall. With a distressingly good mimicry of Eadwulf’s smile, Fjord politely refuses the offer of a ride in a cart from one of the guards on-duty.

“No, thank you, I prefer the exercise. And it won’t matter to him for much longer, anyway.” He gives Caleb’s arm a shake, and Caleb tries to look resigned to his fate.

They move towards the trees, and again, every step Caleb is convinced that it will be the last before they’re found out, before a call goes up from the compound to stop them, that they’ll be dragged back inside and-

Well, he doesn’t really want to dwell on that.

Breaking the treeline, Fjord doesn’t stop, still pulling Caleb along for another hundred yards or so before coming to a halt, letting his disguise fall until it’s just him again. They stare at each other a moment, and Caleb breaks first, barking a laugh that is completely inappropriate but equally impossible to stop. Fjord joins him a moment later, and soon they’re holding each other up, the rush and giddiness of success overtaking them for a few minutes.

As they calm down, Caleb gets them moving again; they’re out, but they’re not safe, not by a long shot.

They’ve been stumbling along for a couple of hours, and Caleb is looking for places to hole up and rest, knowing that neither of them will make it much further, when Fjord freezes, face breaking out into a smile even as he winces a little.

“Yes, Jester, I can hear you. It’s good to hear your voice. We’re-” He looks around, smile slipping to a frown. “-somewhere. I’m not sure where, unfortunately. Can you scry to find us?”

As Fjord’s awaiting a reply, Caleb gets his attention.

“I can tell her where we are, but I don’t know that she should try contact me. I’m not sure what answering a Sending while wearing this would do,” he says, gesturing to the collar still locked around his throat. “I’m not eager to find out. But you can tell her we are approximately three hours north, and a couple hours east from where we left them. We can aim south to meet up, and adjust accordingly as we go.”

When Jester responds, Fjord relays the information for him. It turns out Jester can scry, but since she wouldn’t have a way to get everyone to them through magical means, it isn’t worth the wasted spell. In the meantime, the Nein are going to head north towards them, and Caleb is going to help direct Fjord and himself south, Jester agreeing that she’ll send another message later once some time has passed to more finely tune directions.

As they walk, Caleb keeps thinking this must be a hallucination of some sort, wishful thinking; Fjord’s hand in his as they walk helps alleviate some of that worry, though. They spot a stream a few hours in, and they both rush towards it as quickly as they can, dropping to their knees beside it to drink. After a moment, Caleb grabs Fjord’s shoulder and pulls him back away from the water.

“I know you’re thirsty, _schatz_ , but not too much at once or you’ll make yourself sick.”

For a second it looks as if Fjord is going to argue with him, but then sits up and back with visible effort. Caleb gives his shoulder a squeeze, then frowns looking at Fjord’s forearms. “I’m not sure if we should try to clean you up a bit here, or wait until we meet back up with the others.”

Fjord huffs a laugh. “I think waiting might be best. We’re both a bit of a mess, and I have a feeling letting Jester and Caduceus take a look wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“ _Ja_ , okay. As long as you’re certain. There’s nothing in need of immediate attention, is there?” He knows his face is melting to a frown, but he can’t help it. “I couldn’t always see what Wulf was doing to you.”

Giving Caleb a crooked smile, Fjord shakes his head. “No, nothing that can’t wait until we find the others. Things are painful, and I’m fucking exhausted, but it’s not debilitating. Can’t speak to how I'll feel tomorrow once this all catches up with me, though.”

And Caleb gets it. Even a few hours out they’re both still running on the dregs of adrenaline, and he knows once safety sets in, they’re both going to crash terribly. But it’s hours from now before they can do that. So after a little more water, Caleb does what he must and staggers back to his feet, offering Fjord a hand up, which he happily takes, and they set off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dieser Mann hat uns schon genug genommen._ \- This man has already taken enough from us.
> 
> _Ich schwöre, du wirst mein Tod sein._ \- I swear, you will be the death of me.
> 
> Mechanics, as I see them, for what happened with Fjord (in case you're interested):
> 
> as a Warlock-10/Paladin-3, Fjord has two Pact slots at 5th level, and three Paladin slots at 1st.
> 
> Blink was cast first, which allowed him to get out of his cell to sneak up on Wulf. The second hit he lands on Wulf he expended a Divine Smite using what he expected to be a 1st level slot, but because of the residuum in his arm and lack of training, it got cranked up to a 5th. Similarly, when he cast Witch Bolt, he'd intended it to be a paladin slot, but the second crystal cranked it to 5th, and also allowed him to cast without the necessary spell component. Banishing smite used his other warlock slot, leaving him with a an extra paladin slot that doesn't get used. If he had, it would have been another divine smite, but since no more crystals, would only have been cast at 1st. He was also left with a couple levels of exhaustion (one per crystal use) on top of the one he already had.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s really only a force of will and intense stubbornness that’s keeping him on his feet right now.

He’s assured Caleb that he’s more or less fine, that there’s nothing in immediate need of attention, because even if there were, what would they do about it? They've got barely half a shirt between the two of them at this point.

His back stings and burns, the stab wound aching, as well as his wrists, plus his forearms where the crystals are.

No, where the crystals _were_.

Fjord glances down at the arm not occupied holding onto Caleb, and while he’s glad the bleeding seems to have stopped, it’s disconcerting that it looks like the bandaging is shredded from the inside out. He decides that until there’s something to actually be done about it, he’s going to do what he does best, and just ignore it completely. But no matter how much he may choose to ignore his injuries, it doesn’t stop his body from giving out on him. His thirst had been slaked somewhat at the stream, but he hasn’t eaten in days, and the mix of that, his injuries, and just sheer exhaustion combine to bring him down.

One minute he’s walking with Caleb, helping to guide the other man as the late afternoon sun has the tree cover growing dim, and the next he’s blinking his eyes open, Caleb peering down at him with a warm hand on Fjord’s face.

“There you are, _schatz_.”

He wants to close his eyes, sink into the warmth of Caleb’s hand and the soft darkness around them, but he knows it’s not safe. That doesn’t make it any easier to force himself upright, though.

Caleb leans back so Fjord has room to move, helping Fjord to sit up.

“What happened?”

Fjord snorts a laugh before he can help it, and just gestures vaguely at himself. “Oh, you know. Just the worst inn stay I’ve ever had in my life.”

Caleb rolls his eyes, and gets his hands on Fjord to steady him as he tries to stand, swaying and dizzy once he’s upright.

“ _Ja_ , I must agree the accommodations were somewhat lacking. And the food was terrible.”

Fjord snickers, and they continue on, though slower.

They’ve been walking only another half hour or so when he thinks he hears something and pulls Caleb to a halt, hushing him when the other man starts to ask why. Fjord focuses, straining to hear, and ever-so-faintly, he hears voices from off to their right. He leads Caleb in that direction, the two of them doing their best to be quiet as they go along, the voices getting louder as they move, and Fjord suppresses a sob of relief when he realizes he _recognizes_ those voices.

“But Beaaaaaaau, what if we can’t _find_ them? They could be anywhere!”

“Caleb has a mind like a compass, you know that, Jes. He knew what he was talking about.”

The voices continue, but Fjord isn’t paying them any mind as he tightens his grip on Caleb’s arm and hauls him faster, eliciting a yelp from the other man. The voices quiet at the noise, and a few seconds later Fjord and Caleb break the treeline, stumbling out onto a road.

Just past them in the direction they came from are the rest of the Nein, now turned to face them. Caution turns to realization turns to excited yelling when the group recognizes them and rushes back.

It’s overwhelming in the best possible way, being back with their friends, back with their _family_. Veth has attached herself to Caleb’s legs, hugging tight as she can while Caleb pets her hair and tries to calm her. Jester almost tackles Fjord backwards with a hug, and only his pained gasp makes her let go, eyes going wide in distress.

“Oh no!” She steps back to get a better look at him, her face clouding over as she starts cataloging injuries. “Oh, _Fjord_ -”

“Since we’ve found them,” Caduceus says, a calming rumble from where he’s sitting driving the cart, “Why don’t I turn this around, and we can get them situated before getting out of here.”

It’s the work of a few minutes to get the two of them up into the cart, and from the look Beau gives him before Jester and Yasha help him up, he knows he’s going to get a lecture at some point. As they ride back south, Jester and Beau begin the work of triage, with Yasha assisting. Yasha’s able to take care of the bruising at Caleb’s wrists and throat, as well as the strain in his arm from having it wrenched up behind his back earlier in the day.

While that’s happening, Jester is working on Fjord, frowning in dismay. She quickly takes care of the lingering burns, the mess of his back from the whipping, her expression getting angrier and sadder as she heals him. She deals with his wrists next, closing up the wounds from the cuffs, and looks almost in tears by the time she tentatively goes to reach for the bandaging on his forearms.

“Jester, if you need to take a minute-”

“No, I can do this.” Her voice is a little tremulous, but she smiles up at him. “I want to help.” She focuses once more on his arms, unwrapping the bandages from first one, then the other, prompting a fervent, ‘ _Holy shit._ ’ from Beau.

He glances down and immediately lets his gaze slide from the wound itself to what has apparently drawn attention. Branching out from where the wounds sit are lines, forked like the arms of a lightning strike. Jester’s about to heal the first of the two when Caleb stops her, hand light on her arm.

“Before you close him up, you will want to check for fragments. There may yet be some embedded and you do not want to seal him up around them.”

Jester goes to dig through her healer’s kit for tweezers, and while she does, Beau hunkers down next to Fjord, on the side opposite of where Caleb’s sat himself.

“Fragments of what? What caused this?”

“The same sort of thing that caused these,” Caleb says, holding his own arm up to display the scarring there. “It was being used as a threat, an ultimatum. Our captor was unaware of Fjord’s abilities as a caster, and so unwittingly gave us our means of escape.”

It doesn’t elude Fjord’s notice that Caleb is taking care not to mention Eadwulf by name, and if Caleb isn’t going to say anything about it, Fjord’s not going to, either, though he imagines the two of them are going to have a talk about that later.

Returning, Jester nudges Beau aside to sit next to Fjord, and gets to work checking for bits of crystal. In an effort to distract himself from the pain, Fjord turns to Caleb. “Did this happen to you? The exploding, I mean.”

“The first time, _ja_. But I was not casting anything as powerful as you were at the time and so did not get the same markings as you.” Holding his own arm out towards Fjord, Caleb points to a scar that’s messier than all the others, one on each arm, in approximately the same location Fjord’s crystals were placed. “When Ikithon began experimenting, he did not yet realize that it would take an array, rather than a single crystal, to work effectively. With an array, the surge of magic is more evenly distributed, each crystal taking part of the load. When it is just one crystal, it has a tendency to overload, leading to-” Caleb gestures to Fjord’s arms. “Complications.” 

Complications is right. It takes Jester another half hour to finish checking the first arm, and Fjord’s bitten his lip bloody in an effort to keep his arm in place and not scream, to let her poke and dig around with the tweezers until she’s sure she has all the pieces out. She quickly heals his arm as soon as she’s done, the sudden relief after the last thirty minutes makes him dizzy again, and Caleb places a careful hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

“I think, Jester, we may want to wait until morning to do the other. It will be easier to see, and I don’t know that either of us have the reserves left to get through that tonight.”

She doesn’t look happy about it, but she agrees, on the condition that she’s allowed to clean around the wound and put a new bandage on. That Caleb agrees to, and Fjord would be more annoyed about them talking over and around him except that he’s so tired and worn out and hungry that he could cry, but is too exhausted to be able to properly verbalize any of it.

He doesn’t realize he’s passed out again until he’s waking up, the cart unmoving under him, and a warm hand cradling the side of his face as another cards through his hair.

Blinking his eyes open he smiles to see Caleb, smiling himself and with his globules of light once more floating up and around him, casting shadows around the cart. His eyes flick to Caleb’s throat, and Caleb explains before he can voice the question.

“Veth got it off of me while you were sleeping.”

“I feel calling it sleep implies a far greater level of intentionality than I had, Caleb.”

Caleb’s smile grows warmer, and he caresses Fjord’s face, allowing it when Fjord turns into it and kisses Caleb’s palm.

“Caduceus is making some broth for the both of us, since he said what everyone else is having would be too much for us to start with. It should help to rehydrate us and he wants to get more salt and fat into us than just water would provide. Beau is going to bring some over when it’s done.”

Fjord hums in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_ , _schatz_.” Caleb leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Fjord’s lips. “It is because of you that we are out and safe.”

Fjord shakes his head, doing his best to ignore the pleasant tingling across his lips. “Not just me, Cay, it was a team effort. I wouldn’t have been able to handle the crystals at all without your help. And you gave me the strength to get through more times than I can count. So I say we can just call it even.”

Caleb makes a noise in his throat that Fjord knows is his ‘agree to disagree’ response, but he’s too tired to argue just now. He’ll do it when he’s feeling better.

“For now, why don’t you keep resting until the soup is ready.”

“I don’t think I have much choice, I very much doubt I could go far on my own even if I wanted to. But-” Fjord swallows. “Will you stay? And wait with me?”

“Of course.” Caleb kisses him once more, then helps Fjord settle so he can pillow his head on Caleb’s lap.

Earlier in the day, he hadn’t been certain he would live to have this again, this calm and quiet closeness without a set of bars between them. Yet here he is now, mostly whole and safe, with Caleb’s fingers carding through his hair. Sighing, Fjord turns his head just enough to press a kiss to Caleb’s thigh, then lets himself slip into a well-deserved rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you for sticking with me this far, and I hope you enjoyed the ride! :D


End file.
